Strength of Heart
by bluebear77100
Summary: AU, begins after season 2, likely to be OOC though I do my best, will contain slash-consensual, dubious, and noncon, OCs included. There will be angst, violence, friendship, beauty, etc. This will probably have it all by the time it's through. When Sherlock died, the world kept turning. Moriarty turns up alive, as does Sherlock. When John gets Sherlock back, it's all fine, really..
1. Prologue: When Sherlock Died

**AN: **Hi! First of all, thank you so much for reading my story. I have come to simply adore the BBC version of Sherlock of late, including Benedict and Martin, and thought I'd try my hand at some writing. Although I do see Holmes and Watson as a more soulmate/epic friendship deal personally, this story takes the pair further and into romance eventually. Don't think it's going to come easily though! Oh, and everything just gets so very complex. There will be loads of trouble for the boys, both new and previously met persons will cross their paths, and I probably hurt John, physically and mentally, far more than is kind. This is merely the prologue and further chapters will be longer. Enjoy!

**Prologue**

**When Sherlock Died**

WHEN Sherlock died, his loneliness returned full blast-as did the nightmares of the war. The nightmares of watching Sherlock fall combated quite frequently with his time under gunfire, however, and it made sleeping a chore. He didn't want to accept his friend was gone, but reality was awfully difficult to ignore.

WHEN Sherlock died, he returned to his therapist. It did little for him and merely became routine. The only tangible result that came out of it was a visit to the gravestone a month after his death with Mrs. Hudson. He'd felt like an idiot after, speaking from his heart to a slab of stone. "Don't be dead." What he'd said to the grave like it would somehow change anything. It didn't.

WHEN Sherlock died, his psychosomatic limp returned on the worst days. At first every day was a worst day. Eventually, it was just when something especially reminded him of his best friend. A shock of curly black hair of a person on the street, Lestrade's attempts to get him to continue working on cases with him like Sherlock did, or even the sound of a violin. It all affected him so and it enraged him. He had lost friends and allies in the line of duty but this was so very different. There was no one he'd ever met like Sherlock Holmes.

WHEN Sherlock died, he stopped writing in his blog. After visiting the grave and making a pathetic speech which fell on deaf ears, he stopped seeing his therapist, too. What was the point? Admitting it out loud to make it real? What nonsense. It was already shockingly real.

WHEN Sherlock died, he lost his sense of direction and purpose. With Sherlock there had nearly always been a new adventure to explore, a case to solve. Even when there hadn't been, one was never far off and it was enough. The excitement and intrigue of exploring murder cases died with Sherlock. He chose to work at the hospital as much as possible instead. He was a damn good doctor and determined not to become useless just because he was sad. So determined was he, it took nearly a month to realize he'd been extremely neglectful of his eating and sleeping habits. Too much like Sherlock. He'd gotten violently ill and then set aside time to ensure he ate and slept on a regular basis. He could do without the reminder of such a loss.

WHEN Sherlock died, he cut himself off from Scotland Yard. Lestrade was unhappy about it but he suspected the rest of the police were only too glad to be rid of Sherlock's sidekick, sole friend, flatmate, or whatever he was being called at the time. They all of them actually believed the massive lie Moriarty had spun. The last he'd seen of Lieutenant Donovan, Anderson, and the rest, was when he'd been in Lestrade's office yelling at the man for his lack of faith. They'd wanted to believe Sherlock was guilty because it was easier to do so. They didn't like that Sherlock was better than them, smarter and brilliant, and solving crimes sheerly by being himself. He'd informed the entire police force of this, loudly. Load of good it did... the tabloids had made up their mind for them. Mycroft knew the truth, but he refused to talk to him or Anthea either. That bastard was at least equally responsible for Sherlock's fate, as Moriarty himself. There would be no forgiveness for such blatant guilt.

WHEN Sherlock died, he didn't see his sister or date anyone anymore. He still saw Sarah at the hospital when he worked his shifts, but she'd learned to avoid bringing up Sherlock after the first time and that he was there only for work. The one person he held on to, even three months on after his friend was gone, was Mrs. Hudson. He hadn't the heart to cut her from his life or leave her permanently. She was who kept him tethered to the flat he'd once shared with Sherlock, no matter how hard it was to remain. The rent was being paid off in its entirety as well, which he suspected was Mycroft's doing, the meddling git.

WHEN Sherlock died, he visited the grave more often than was necessarily healthy. After curling up and sleeping peacefully over the grave one night, he forced himself to stop visiting altogether. That marked the passing of three months without Sherlock. He quit the hospital and started his own investigations because he couldn't take being so depressing and sitting still. A missing dog case fell into his lap and he met a nice woman named Mary, who he spent the occasional weekend with as a method of getting away from the city. He kept it proper though, strictly good friends. Didn't feel much like being his usual "bachelor" self these days, and sought closeness more.

WHEN Sherlock died, Calantha, that's what she'd taken to calling herself at the time, came to him in private, learning of John's recent undertaking. She swore Mycroft knew nothing and then offered to be his source of information. When he'd asked her why she would help him, he received a smile and several peculiar cold case files as his answer. They had been very interesting and from what he'd picked up from watching Sherlock, he thought he was finally getting somewhere after several weeks had passed. Then "The Woman" showed up and created quite the distraction, especially when he'd believed her dead as well. She brought with her, another cold case from Calantha, and far too many memories. Together they figured out just how the money was being smuggled out of the bank, and together they managed to find comfort in one another. It was how he learned she was as lonely as he, and before she left, she gave him a place to use to escape the flat he was stuck in whenever he needed it.

WHEN Sherlock died, four months gone by, he found a new focus. Calantha came to him with a new proposition, a job offer from the government. It had nothing to do with Mycroft, involved outing traitors in the NSA and a corruption scheme, and more importantly, gave him a new purpose to focus on. His secondary flat became useful for the cover he adopted. The soldier returned from war a few years ago, temporary consultant to the police, now seeking to be a part of something bigger. It wasn't difficult for those he was introduced to, to believe, and they were excited to have yet another volunteer for their project. He figured out rather quickly that the experimental drug the project revolved around wasn't ethical and with a little help from Irene, who seduced one of the computer technicians, he had in his hands the information he required to proceed. The project itself had begun innocent enough, but the two who had been placed in charge were as corrupt as they came, and the project devolved into murder abound.

A month passed and it was a struggle to maintain his cover and deal with the constant injections involved in making a "super soldier", but he was successfully distracted. His latest cold case investigation, with potential corrupt cops, was put aside when he caught wind of a presence in Cardiff that couldn't be possible. An explosion initially believed to be a gas leak. He knew better and so did Calantha, who informed him of a man who'd been disappeared from the same flat that had been blown to bits. The man was a wealthy investor in technology, suddenly living in a crap flat. It didn't make sense. The police figured on it being a hit. A man who got in with the wrong people and had lost that fortune with ugly results. He considered the bombing and the lost wealth and came up with a name. Moriarty. Supposedly dead. That was what he'd been informed of. The hardest way. That was how he learned Moriarty still lived.

WHEN Sherlock died, he had first dreaded the slowness of time, then needed as much as he could get when working as essentially a spy in a job he would never of taken had circumstances been more kind. He lost two weeks because of the insane criminal mastermind, but he felt it was two weeks he'd deserved to lose. How else could he shake himself from his guilt in failing Sherlock? It had also served as the perfect reminder that he couldn't play God. What he could do, was stop the corruption within the NSA and save a lot of people in the process. His control over the situation was slipping though and he knew it. As the drug improved, he worried they would achieve what they sought and he'd be trapped. There was a method of sneaking the information out. He only needed to find the method. Not being able to find that method and seeing what these people were doing, began the nightmares again.

WHEN Sherlock died, the world kept turning.


	2. To Live is to Suffer-Part 1

**Chapter 1**

**To Live is to Suffer**

_Part One_

Five months after Sherlock died, John discovered Moriarty lived.

The Cardiff police didn't believe him when he tried to explain who Moriarty was and tried to prove his responsibility behind the recent bombing they were investigating. Everyone believed the stupid reporters about how fake the criminal mastermind was. After all, who could be involved in that much crime and never get caught? Bloody idiots. He'd found the missing man from the blown to hell flat still owned several hotels and he tracked down the bastard himself. His mission he was working with Anthea was completely forgotten for the time being, the case of potential police corruption that had gone nowhere, already left behind a week before that. Moriarty had taken Sherlock from him and it was something that could never be forgotten.

He found James Moriarty in a high-end hotel room, third floor, torturing a stranger tied to a chair. Well, Moriarty wasn't the one doing the actual pain-inflicting, undoubtedly for the sake of his "not getting his own hands dirty" mantra with his job as consulting criminal. A second man, probably another one of his random thugs, was currently occupied shredding the poor victim's chest to ribbons, slowly. John watched this for maybe a total of five seconds before making his move.

He'd managed to acquire a key to the room from the front desk area in order to quietly slip inside and get the drop on the king of crime. Moriarty had his back to the door as John entered, busy snarling something liable to be horrendous into his captive's ear. The man in the chair was beyond terrified. He'd obviously been badly injured, badly scared, and even though the thug's hand now stayed from the physical attack, he continued to scream from behind the gag fixed around the lower half of his head. Pain and distress was written all across his face.

John took this all in rapidly, swallowed down the urge to gag at the mess that was the hostage's chest and stomach, and then aimed his gun level at Moriarty's skull. He was going to take him out immediately, shoot him dead before a single word could be uttered from that venomous mouth. But when he hesitated, for that very small moment, he knew it was not going to be as easy as he'd hoped. Arrive, shoot Moriarty dead, leave. That had been his mantra since the day he discovered Moriarty lived. Never had he killed anyone in cold-blood. Apparently not even someone as dark and twisted as James Moriarty was enough for him to kill. He was going to have to work his way up to it, get the other man to piss him off enough to do the deed. He hoped it worked or he was going to be as dead as his target deserved to be.

"Moriarty," he uttered, eyes steeling, body forming into a rigid military stance as he kept the handgun trained on his target with the right hand.

The bastard actually had the decency to look genuinely surprised, eyes widening, growing ridiculously large as he turned towards the doorway and to John. When the surprise shifted eerily into a pleased expression, he had to consciously keep his face stony and not confused. He forced his eyes to stare directly into the other man's cold, dark ones.

"You don't get to live," he found himself saying to the man in the annoyingly expensive and handsome suit. "You don't get to live when..when he's dead."

Crap. He'd choked on the delivery a bit. Saying his name though, it remained difficult even now. His life as he knew it had ended when Sherlock took that jump. He was willing to risk it all for the opportunity to avenge his best friend. Moriarty's expression darkened.

"Oh? And are you going to be the one to end me? Sherlock would be so disappointed if-"

"Don't you say his name! You don't get to do that either!"

The thug made a move on him, flipping the knife up to throw it at John. So John shot him, in the head. He was dead before hitting the ground and he already had the gun back on Moriarty in the next moment, to find the man positively bursting with glee.

"Oh! The soldier can kill. I can play that game too, Johnny."

A subtle nod to the wall by the door and John realized his mistake. He hadn't looked around at his surroundings when he entered. His eyes had been for the man he'd come to kill alone. He tried to remedy his mistake by switching his aim behind and to the right, but felt the cold metal of someone else's gun press against the back of his head before he could move much. This had gone wrong, fast. His missing the fourth man in the room was a big mistake indeed, a fatal one.

His jaw clenched and his lips thinned, but he didn't lower his own weapon. He calculated his odds of eliminating Moriarty before he, himself, was eliminated. They weren't good. His enemy seemed to be reading his mind.

"Actions have consequences. You killed one of my men, I kill an ordinary citizen."

Moriarty leaned down and slit the tortured man's throat, squatting lower to watch as the man gurgled and choked on his own blood. When the man was quite dead, he stood back up and straightened out his suit. Turning to face John, he looked pointedly at the gun in his hand and the knife in his own.

"Hm..looks like you won this round."

He dropped the blood-coated knife onto the carpet. John continued to stare at him silently, unsure of what his next move should be. A suicidal shot at Moriarty? The man wasn't finished speaking.

"Unfortunately for you, John, Sebastian wins the second."

He risked a glance over his shoulder to get a brief glimpse of the man with the gun to his skull. Dark hair and dark eyes, tall and broad shouldered. John was no Sherlock, but he could spot the military stance in which the larger man held himself as he kept the gun steady. This man was apparently named Sebastian. He turned out to not be such a nice man. He poked the back of John's head and when John did nothing, he bashed the gun against the side of his head.

He grunted, stumbling forward a bit. After regaining his balance, he let out a curse.

"English. Forming words. Try it next time you want something done," he muttered, dropping his handgun to the floor after applying the safety.

He'd thought he'd been ready to die. Without Sherlock, life was bitter, awful, agonizing at times. In a moment of weakness he had decided he didn't want to die and it couldn't have come at a worse time, because surely, surely Moriarty was going to kill him. The only thing he had to wonder, was whether he would be killed quick or slow.

Moriarty was peering down at the dead man in the chair with disgust, as though the man was somehow offending him simply by being in the chair, deceased. He took this as an opportunity to seal his lips and become silent. Perhaps his chances of being murdered quickly would improve if he made himself as dull as the terrible man thought he was.

The criminal mastermind had returned his attention to John. He tilted his head to the side and peered curiously at him. John ignored his stare and looked past him to the window beyond. Moriarty wasn't having any of that.

"You can talk, Johnny boy."

The response came immediate. "I have nothing to say to you."

"We both know that's not true. Go on, don't be a bore."

The last part came out as more of a threat. Good. It meant he was on the right track. Being a bore would make this undesirable situation end much more quickly. He may have failed at killing Moriarty, but he'd die readily enough over being stuck listening to the man he hated, the man responsible for Sherlock's suicide.

"Just get on with it."

"With what? Oh, you mean killing you?"

Another motion and John was being pushed to his knees, the gun at the back of his skull now pushing hard into the flesh of his neck. He shut his eyes and waited for it. Nothing happened. The sound of footsteps walking up to his position prompted him to open his eyes when he felt himself grow anxious.

"It would be so easy for me."

The snap of fingers caused him to jump and he felt his cheeks flush slightly in embarrassment.

"Like that, I could snuff out your existence."

"And?" John gritted out through clenched teeth.

"And that's rather the point. I can kill you at any moment. But this is what I'll do instead. If you don't obey every one of my commands, like the good little dog that you are, I will kill some poor, ordinary person just walking about on the street. Do you understand?"

"Just what the hell do you want from me?"

"Stand."

John was acutely aware he'd been ignored and given a command. He thought about throwing himself at his enemy, considered attempting to throw the gun at his neck off just before pummeling Moriarty into a bloody mess. But when the gun was removed and the man behind him took a few steps back, out of his range, he knew that possibility had come and gone. He stood.

"You're soooo good. I can't stand it. How can you be like that, all-the-time?"

He frowned at Moriarty.

"It sounds exhausting." Moriarty expressed, nose shriveling up in distaste at the idea of a person being truly good.

"Yeah, sure, I'm a nice guy. But that doesn't mean I won't shoot you in the face. Fancy giving me my gun?"

"You had your gun, your chance, and you didn't pull the trigger. Let's not pretend you would either. I know you better than that."

"You don't know me at all," he practically growled out.

It only seemed to please the other. "Course I do. You're..sorry.._were_ Sherlock's pet. He must have kept you around for a reason. I wonder..."

"Don't. You'll only hurt yourself."

He'd said it threateningly. He wanted the man to know he could lash out at any moment if provoked enough. Moriarty was wagging his finger at him now, scoldingly.

"That's enough talking."

John started to open his mouth and found a finger unwantingly placed against his lips in a hushing gesture.

"Remember those average people, just waiting to get sniped. Moran is very talented."

Automatically, he stored that knowledge for later. Sebastian Moran, obvious former military, and a sniper to boot. He took a step back to remove the finger from his face, and was rewarded for his action by a hand fisting in his hair, tugging him closer. With a grimace, he let Moriarty do it, and apprehensively let the man grip his chin with his other hand.

"I am so pleased you were able to find me, Johnny. Now we'll get to spend all kinds of time together. I'm going to find out what makes you so specialize. And at the very least, I'm going to make you regret daring to think you would succeed at killing me."

That sounded very much like a promise, and he swallowed down a knot of fear threatening to rise up out of his throat. A couple years ago, the criminal had had him in his clutches for only a few hours, and it had been hell. He knew the torments a man like Moriarty could conjure, and he was afraid. There, he'd admitted it. Too bad it did absolutely nothing for him.

"Hm... What should we name him, Sebastian? The Pet seems far too obvious. How about the Mutt? No...? I'll figure it out. I want it to be good, fitting, like Sherlock's."

John yanked his head away from Moriarty, eyes wide as the other went on, utterly calm and matter-of-fact as he spoke.

"And the name still fits him, too, doesn't it?"

Don't. He'd better not call Sherlock that. It was just so stupid when the man was dead.

"The Virgin."

His vision blurred, his brain went fuzzy, and he punched the man full on in the face. The satisfaction that came from connecting with Moriarty's face and watching him stumble backwards a small distance was short-lived. Moran was on him in a second, taking him to the floor and kicking him over and over. He then switched to punching him in the face repeatedly until it was a bloody mess. When he couldn't do much more than twitch or groan, the brutal beating ceased. It was fortunate, because his body had begun to numb from the sheer pain shooting through every part of him, and as a doctor, he knew that wasn't very good. Vaguely, he was aware he was being lifted up and when his back hit something soft and cushy, he knew he'd been tossed on the bed. That was about the time he blacked out.

_John shook his head from side to side as he exited 221b. He was frustrated and annoyed, and persistently trying to tell himself he wasn't mad. Sherlock thought he was such an idiot but he wasn't. He knew his flatmate was keeping something from him and he knew the man probably thought his tiny little brain couldn't possibly process such knowledge. So now he would be turning his thoughts to Sarah. Sweet and wonderful Sarah who deserved to see her boyfriend more often than she ever did get to do. If Sherlock didn't want to share his thoughts on this mysterious Moriarty fellow nor discuss the fact that the man was clearly having fun playing with the consulting detective, then John would just go on with his day as usual. Oh boy, there he went again, mind mulling over Sherlock Holmes. _

_Flowers! Yes, he would buy Sarah some flowers. There was a flower shop only a block from his current position. He would try to make it up to Sarah tonight. He had to with the way their first date had gone and how inconsistent he was with his attendance as her employee at the hospital. Just before the bouquet shop, he frowned and paused in the entryway, glancing over his shoulder at the street behind him. Nothing out of the ordinary, some traffic, a few pedestrians, nothing more. Yet he couldn't shake the feeling there were eyes on him. Great, this bomber case was making him paranoid. _

_Stepping inside the shop, he mulled over the card section for a moment, before deciding against it. A card was too risky. It would be either the right one or the completely wrong one. He and Sarah were not in a position to get any more unstable at the moment. His eyes swept over the rows of flowers set out for selection. Which ones to choose..._

_"Oh, hi, um...John was it?"_

_He startled at the sudden interruption in his thought-process and the immense closeness of the speaker. A dark haired man slightly taller than himself, stood immediately to his right, leaning towards him with his head cocked to the side in a curious manner. John took a step away from the guy to put a more comfortable distance between them and to get a better look at him. He was familiar, he'd definitely seen him before. Dark hair was slicked perfectly back, he was clean shaven, wearing an impeccable suit that had to of cost a pretty penny, and it was obvious he was a high-maintenance fellow who took great care to look good. _

_Pretty quickly he placed it, but he was incredibly surprised as he did. The man before him now looked a lot different from the man he'd met previously. The gay guy from the morgue. Jim from IT. Tonight he was clearly dressed to impress and had some special plans. For a moment he wondered, but then he remembered Sarah and how he should really find some flowers and get a move on to her place. _

_"Uh, yeah, that's right. And you're Jim..Molly's Jim."_

_"Ahh..well, was Molly's Jim. She broke up with me shortly after meeting you and Sherlock Holmes in the lab. Something about us being very different people."_

_John winced. It wasn't entirely an unpredictable outcome after Sherlock had openly called out Jim as being gay in front of the new couple. He briefly scanned his eyes over Jim's attire. _

_"So if you're broken up, might I ask what the occasion is for getting all dressed up?"_

_The other man smiled, and John couldn't help but notice the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. Maybe his prodding wasn't appreciated because Jim was obviously trying to play polite. Whoops..now to change the subject and extract himself from this situation. _

_"Ah, sorry, nevermind. It's really not my business."_

_He turned and went back to browsing through the flower selection. He'd go with a bouquet. Sarah deserved at __least that much, no matter the cost. Roses. Red roses were romantic and beautiful and he hoped it would be enough to express how sorry he was for not being more available. Picking up the flowers, he made his way to the checkout, only to find he had not rid himself of Molly's..sorry, formerly Molly's Jim. _

_"I don't mind you asking. Tonight's an important night for me actually. Get to introduce myself to someone special."_

_"You've met someone else already? How wonderful for you I suppose." John sort of muttered absentmindedly as he made his purchase with the teller. _

_"Well, I've met him in a manner of speaking, but not officially. I've got another date beforehand though, have to be prepared and all that."_

_John found himself turning towards Jim curiously, frowning at the same time when he felt the man's hand touch the arm he had resting on the counter. Something was..off. Back in the morgue's lab, Jim had been a bag of nerves, fawning over Sherlock while completely ignoring everyone else. This very moment, he was anything but awkward and had eyes solely for John. What? Was this guy seriously trying to flirt with him after confessing he already had two dates for tonight? It was a good thing Molly had dumped him when she had. Judging by how Jim said he was meeting a man, Sherlock had been correct in deducing he was gay. Apparently, he also was quick to get himself other dates as well, and didn't mind having more than one. _

_Pulling his arm out from under Jim's touch, he accepted his change and thanked the teller as he pocketed the currency. She asked him if he wanted the flowers wrapped but he turned her down, wishing to remove himself from Jim's company as quickly as possible. This guy was sending out bad news vibes to him. _

_"Well, I have to be off to my girlfriend's," he initiated, outside the shop when he saw the admittedly exceptionally dressed man had trailed after him to the sidewalk. "It was..interesting running into you..I guess."_

_Jim surprised him when he laughed, following him as John made his way down the sidewalk. "You could at least attempt to hide your contempt for me."_

_"What?"_

_He turned to look at the other, frowning again. "I'm sorry?"_

_For a second, the dark brown eyes appeared almost black, marring the handsome face. But then in the next moment, they seemed normal brown again as he tilted his head at a slight angle to regard John with a small smile. _

_"You have a certain light in your eyes. It's...darling."_

_John visibly wrinkled his face up in distaste as he physically displayed his repulsion for such words. He was usually better at pretending to be tolerating of others, polite and kind to everyone he met..that deserved it anyway. This Jim was not one of those people, he was rapidly learning. The man made his skin crawl and his flirting somehow seemed almost so intense it was actually threatening. How did a guy like that land two dates in a single night? He wasn't gay, but perhaps men were easier that way? _

_"I should be going. Goodbye Jim."_

_He resumed his walk at a quicker pace than before, but Jim matched him pace for pace. What was with this guy? Why didn't he leave him be? Was it really necessary for him to flat-out tell the guy he wasn't gay and certainly wasn't interested in creepy Jim from IT?_

_"You're not as average as you pretend, are you?"_

_His pace faltered, but he managed to keep going, glancing Jim's way. "Excuse me?"_

_"You know something is wrong, with me. But you just can't place what it is. You can't place why you're suspecting of me."_

_Discomfort spread through his body as the man reached over and wrapped his fingers around his wrist, abruptly stopping his walking. _

_"Stop, Dr. Watson."_

_"Er..Molly told you I was a doctor, did she?"_

_"No, John, she didn't."_

_His attempt to remove his arm from Jim's hold failed miserably. The man was much stronger than he appeared. A second attempt to pull away had him suddenly being pulled by the arm, into an alleyway not far from where they'd been standing on the sidewalk. John finally managed to escape from the grasp as his back was pushed into the brick wall in the dark of the alley. What the hell was going on? _

_"I know all about you. I know all about Sherlock Holmes, too. I studied the pair of you, intently, before I set in motion the opportunity to meet the famous man himself. Rather rude I must say, then again, a superior man like him doesn't have time to placate the ignorant masses."_

_John frowned. The man was far too close to him for comfort, standing at ease with his hands in his pockets and a slight smirk on his face. He was nothing at all like the Jim from the lab in that moment and a thought began to creep in the back of his head. As though the other man was reading his mind, he removed his hands from his pockets and clapped once. _

_"Ah, I think he's got it." _

_He reached for his gun before realizing he'd left it at home. He'd been going to Sarah's, there'd been no conceivable need to bring a weapon along. How could he be so stupid? He had known the bomber was still out there and should have brought the gun as a precaution. But Sherlock was the one who had enthralled the mystery man behind the bombings. Why go after him when he could go after Sherlock? Oh..in a manner he WAS going after Sherlock. _

_"James Moriarty, pleased to meet you."_

_"Uh huh." John uttered, then pushed the now incredibly terrifying man away and ran for it, roses abandoned and long forgotten. _

_To say it hurt, when another man rammed bodily into him from the side, would be an understatement. The man dressed in black was much bigger and broader than himself, and it felt like he'd been slammed into by a large boulder. Hitting the ground, he rolled with it in order to avoid injury, and lashed out at his attacker with a well-placed kick to the face. His assailant dropped hard, but his victory was momentary, as there was another similarly built man coming towards him from just behind the first one. _

_John swept himself back up to stand on both feet as a black car careened practically onto the sidewalk beside him. He found he was very much trapped when the driver's window rolled down and he found a gun pointed at him. The other man reached him but stopped just short of assault and stooped to help his downed friend instead. He discovered the reason why when he felt a hand against his back. Moriarty. _

_"Please, John, get in the car. We're going somewhere to meet Sherlock."_

_"Sherlock?"_

_"He set this up himself actually."_

_There was swearing going on in his head. Of course, what Sherlock had been hiding from him. He'd probably waited until he left the apartment before messaging James Moriarty a moment later. Five... Oh, shit. There had only been four..._

_"Um..yeah. I'm not going with you so you can strap a bomb on me and use me against Sherlock."_

_Moriarty was smiling again. Probably not a good thing. _

_"It's adorable that you actually believe there will be any other end to tonight. I suppose that's the only way simple people like yourself can keep themselves going each day, hm? Belief that they can actually change things out there in the big, bad world."_

_John grinded down on his lower set of teeth and searched his surroundings, seeking for a way to escape this predicament. He knew it was unlikely he would find one, but it was instinct. He wasn't the kind of man to just give in because someone told him to. _

_"I see the concept of getting blown to bits makes you a tad unsettled. Well, we have time to spend until midnight. Would it comfort you to know that the worst thing to happen to you tonight will not be getting strapped with explosives?"_

_He actually thought about what was being said to him and that was his mistake. Moriarty was distracting him with his words, never intending an answer. The slightly taller man leaned in, a knee very purposefully sliding between his legs, and planted his lips against John's. He gasped in shock, never expecting such an act from an obviously clever and demented criminal mastermind, and Moriarty took full advantage. Tongue was everywhere, exploring the inside of his mouth, and it took him nearly a full minute to shake himself out of his frozen mode, shoving the twisted criminal violently away from him in horror. The man was laughing hysterically. _

_"You and I are going to have such fun playing together, Johnny."_

_Wiping his mouth with his jacket sleeve in disgust, he shook his head rapidly. "Fuck. I'll take the explosives."_

_"Hm..interesting wording. All in good time. We have until midnight after all."_

_He blanched at the flirtatious tone the other man was using with his words. "You made Jim from IT up. You were playing gay. What in God's name are you playing at now?"_

_Moriarty was now positively grinning from ear to ear. "I'm playing..how to make Johnny boy suffer as much as possible...without Sherlock ever finding out just how much fun we had."_

_An almost imperceptible nod and the two men behind him were grabbing hold of John, handcuffing his wrists behind him and then promptly shoving him into the backseat of the waiting car. When he nearly managed to throw himself back out of the car, one of the black clad men punched him in the stomach and he doubled over in a huff. Peering upwards, he caught Moriarty rolling his eyes in impatience and then the man shoved him further into the car himself, getting in after. _

_John made to speak and was rewarded with a harsh grip over his mouth, fingers clamping onto his jaw. He __watched as the other men climbed into the car to sit across from him and Moriarty. The car pulled away from the curb as soon as the door shut. His eyes moved to the man behind his now apparent kidnapping, who seemed to have been waiting for him to acknowledge him._

_"When I want you to open that mouth, you'll know it."_

_Moriarty shoved him back against the seat, releasing his face, but John didn't dare say a word. This guy was hard to read. He always seemed to be shifting from one emotion to the next, one thought to another. John settled on working at the cuffs. His eyes watched the road, attempting to keep track of where they were headed. Sherlock was the one who knew these roads like the back of his hand though. After a few minutes he was already lost. Still, if he could get loose somehow and could outrun his kidnappers, he'd be able to get somewhere there was a phone. He'd be okay and then Sherlock would be okay. _

_He doubled over when the man clothed in black across from him leaned forward and punched him in the ribs. Before he could even catch his breath, he was being dragged from the seat and shoved to the floor of the vehicle. A boot landed on the back of his neck and pushed, crushing his face into the carpeted floor. About five minutes like that and then he was brought up again and returned to his original position beside Moriarty._

_Once more his face was jerked around so that he was staring into the other man's face. "My men don't like it when they go through all the trouble of acquiring someone, only for said someone to do nothing but search for an avenue of escape."_

_John wanted to scream the obvious at him. That of course he would look for a way to get out. His captor had made it clear he was going to do bad things and that they involved Sherlock later in the night. Did he really think he was going to sit and take it? But he didn't say anything. He hadn't forgotten the cruelty in Moriarty's gaze when he'd informed him he should not talk, lest he suffer the consequences, or something along those lines. _

_The man was smiling broadly. "Good pet. Oh look, we've arrived."_

_The two men across from him took him out of the car and into the building they were parked behind. The Sports Center. He knew where they were going. This was the place where young Carl Powers had died. And he was right. He was forcefully walked into the locker room of the pool area and left alone. Well, not actually alone. One of the hired goons stood just outside the door, the shadow of his head partially seen through the small window. _

_He took in his new surroundings in a hurry. Time was not on his side. He had to get out of here to warn Sherlock about what he thought he was doing, setting up a meet with a mad man such as James Moriarty. The goon was waiting outside the exit but if he was alone, he could take him. He'd shove the door into him to knock him off balance and then run like hell. It might work and taking a chance was better than nothing. He stood cautiously, the running was going to be a little more of a nuisance than it should be with his wrists handcuffed behind him, but very doable. Naturally, this was when Moriarty chose to make his reappearance through a second entrance he hadn't even known about._

_Visibly he deflated, tense shoulders dropping and restrained arms relaxing. Moriarty hadn't come alone. A tall, broad-shouldered man was with him. He thought about fighting or fleeing anyway, and his captor read every thought right off him._

_"Aw, don't be like that. I might think this is a one-sided affair if you continue to act so put-off by my presence."_

_"It is one-sided."_

_"Psh."_

_What? What the heck was that? This whole situation was beginning to get to him. Moriarty kept toying with him and it was frustrating. Was he really going to have to endure hours of Mr. Insanity before Sherlock arrived? Oh, God, he didn't want Sherlock to come here. Would Moriarty kill him when he did? What did he want from the detective consultant anyway, aside from playing games with him? If this ended up being about who was smarter than who, he was gonna kill someone. _

_"Tsk, tsk, tsk. I can't seem to get your full attention. Guess we'll have to do something to change that."_

_Thug number two descended upon him, initiating the sudden close proximity with a fist into his stomach. The blow caused him to drop to his knees and he muttered a curse, followed by a query as to why they had to keep hitting him there. Surprisingly, while he quite pathetically tried to jostle with his assailant, Moriarty answered him. _

_"As much damage as possible-without Sherlock noticing. I want him seeing you strapped with explosives, potentially about to meet your maker, and that is ALL I wish for him to see. Any other injuries would serve only as a..distraction. What happens in the next couple of hours before his arrival is between you and me, Pet."_

_"Face is off limits, how fantastic for me. Would mean so much more if your man would stop trying to-augh..."_

_A steel-tipped boot to his shin, followed by yet another hit to his ribs, silenced his speech and movements temporarily. It provided sufficient time for thug number two to continue the removal of his clothing. The restraints were momentarily removed, long enough to yank his jacket and shirt entirely off of his body before being replaced, leaving him utterly nude and once more with wrists locked together behind himself. He was pulled up and seated on the bench again. _

_"Well, this is really not how I wanted to spend my evening. This settles it. Bad day all around."_

_Moriarty gave his man a nod and they were left alone. Hardly comforting, given who Moriarty was. The being naked thing didn't exactly put him at ease either. There were reasons for a captive to be stripped. It could be a means of searching to ensure there were no hidden weapons, a method to embarrass or humiliate, or there was always that other reason. The other reason was one he didn't even want to entertain in his mind. It couldn't happen to him. No way. No fucking way. _

_He felt dark eyes burning into his chin and he forced himself to lower his head and stare back. He wouldn't be cowed by this man. This apparent criminal genius looked younger than he was, too soft to of had any military experience. Definitely he had others do the majority of his dirty work. So... what did it mean when he was alone with him?_

_The man got down on one knee in front of where John sat. He continued to stare directly into John's eyes. It was unnerving. _

_"I want you to tell me everything about Sherlock Holmes. Everything there is to know as the inside man in his life of late."_

_"What? You mean because I live with him? You already know all about him. What could I possibly tell you that would be new?"_

_"You undersell yourself. You may be one of the many boring normal people out there, but you've got something on them no one else does. You, Dr. Watson, have managed to enthrall the very man who has captured my interest. How do you do it? What is it that makes you so special?"_

_"I don't know what you're talking about."_

_"Oh don't be dense!"_

_The words came out sharp, full of sudden anger. It had been unexpected but it was something he'd rapidly gathered about Moriarty. Unstable, insane, unpredictable. James Moriarty was not only a master of crime, but a master of his own changing emotions. The guy didn't seem to know what he wanted at times, yet so certain of what he was doing in the next moment. _

_John continued to stare into the other man's eyes and he swore he could see the color darken to a near black along with his blackening mood. Though his eyes seemed to be darkening, a positively shark-like grin was spreading across his face. He really, really didn't like being near this man and it had nothing to do with being naked, cuffed, or trapped. The man reeked of danger so intoxicating he was actually beginning to feel fear creep slowly to the forefront of his mind. _

_"You were a soldier. Tell me, what is the best method of extracting information from a hostage when time is short and you don't want to leave lasting damage, seeking to keep the subject alive and in good health?"_

_His carefully calculated, calm breathing caught in his throat. That thing he wasn't going to entertain was coming back into his thoughts again. No. Why would he do this? There was no reason. His eyes had strayed away from Moriarty for a few seconds, but they returned when he realized an actual answer was wanted. _

_"We didn't do sick shit like that. The British Armed Forces has honor. Something you obviously know nothing about."_

_If it was at all possible, the man's smile appeared to stretch even further. His eyes lit up with dark amusement. "So predictable. The soldier, using an insult to attempt to avoid an inevitable fate. Rather pathetic but admittedly enjoyable..for me." _

_Moriarty reached close and ran a hand gently through his hair. When John tried to pull back, the soft touch turned harsh, fisting painfully into his blonde locks. He was tugged forward until Moriarty's lips were about to touch John's own, a small smile still poised as he began to speak. _

_"You will tell me what I want to know. You are dull and plain, Johnny boy. I am going to tear you to pieces without Sherlock ever knowing. So come on, Johnny. Focus on that life-long goal of staying alive if you must. Don't disappoint me... Now! Before giving me what I need, why don't we forego the talking for a bit, and put that mouth to another use." _

_He never said a word about Sherlock. He refused to give Moriarty that when the man had already forcefully taken John's dignity and fight out of him by the time he was through. When midnight approached, thug number two along with number one came in as soon as Moriarty had gone out. He'd then been clothed plus encumbered with an uncomfortable amount of explosives. _

_Jim Moriarty returned once more to give him a final brush of lips against his cheek and ear, applying an earpiece to one ear while reminding John that he knew the rules. Fingers scraped lightly across his neck, and then the well-dressed devil was gone and would not be seen again until Sherlock's arrival. While he waited for that moment, for the first command to be uttered through the earpiece, he clenched and unclenched his now gloved hands, swallowing nervously but pushing away the most mind-numbing of his fears. It was extremely difficult after what Moriarty had put him through, but he had to concentrate on what was about to happen. He had to, because of Sherlock, because he needed to make sure that if he couldn't make it out alive, at least Sherlock would. _

_The last Moriarty-centered thought that came to mind before he pushed his thoughts forward to the situation at __hand, were worthy of wrecking him. The worst thing about James Moriarty, he raped sweetly. It was like making love in the most twisted sense. The future would come to show that just about everything involving Jim Moriarty __was twisted. It was too horrible that even Sherlock didn't see it in time to save himself. John would have suffered a hundred times at Moriarty's hands if it would have saved his best friend from that fall. The time to change things had long passed, however, and Sherlock Holmes was long gone. All that remained was the attempt to be someone who could make a difference, without Sherlock to lift him up and make it possible. Even that small future, seemed dim, as his own vision dimmed and unconsciousness took him further into the hell he was living. _


	3. To Live is to Suffer-Part 2

**Chapter 2  
**

**To Live is to Suffer**

_Part Two_

The memory of his first encounter with James Moriarty faded into the recesses of his dizzied mind. He began to feel an insurmountable amount of pain and he knew he was coming back to consciousness. Something was touching him, no, someone. There was a heat on top of him and a nagging sensation at the back of his skull screamed for him to wake and become aware. He forced his eyes open and immediately clamped them shut again when a fresh surge of pain roared through his head. It felt like his entire face had been smashed into a wall a few dozen times. Wait..that wasn't far off. He recalled a man named Sebastian Moran and then his current predicament came flooding back. Overcoming the worst of the agony his body was in, his eyes snapped open.

Moriarty was very much naked and was the heat he'd felt on him. A glance down the length of his own body informed him that he was likewise undressed. Did he think this was what he and Sherlock had done in the past? That this was why Sherlock "kept" him around? Surely he knew better than that. Which meant, the criminal did this..why? To make him suffer, undoubtedly.

His eyes checked out his environment. The dead man and the chair were gone, though a sizable bloodstain coated the white carpet. Moran was also missing but he didn't think he'd gone far. Moriarty always had back-up and secondary plans, for everything. There would be no escape. He could barely move as it was, nearly every inch of his body in a fair bit of pain from the earlier beating. His attention went to the man on top when he spoke directly to him.

"Oh, good, you're awake. I thought I might have to get started without you."

He winced as Moriarty leaned an elbow into cracked ribs, full attention going to the probably very messed up face of his. Molestation while unaware sounded like a good idea. Why'd he have to wake up again?

"Sherlock and I don't do this, you know. So you can stop."

A frown creased the other's forehead. "This isn't about Sherlock. Obvious."

Rolled eyes like John was the dumbest person he'd ever met encouraged the former soldier to latch onto the wrist of the wandering hand on his chest. Moriarty looked put out that his ministrations had been halted, but didn't fight the hold, lifting his gaze to John's eyes for the first time since waking. A lick of the lips gave away the man's impatience, yet he waited.

"Of all the things you are, I'd never have pegged you for a rapist. Stop. You don't need to do this out of some kind of misguided desire to hurt Sherlock. He can't hurt. Not anymore."

He really, really wanted this to work. Attempts to reach out to the perpetrator sometimes could prevent certain actions from being taken. At least, shows on the telly displayed such things going down successfully. Moriarty wasn't like anyone he'd ever seen on television or actually met, however, so he knew it was a long shot. A failed one at that but the attempt was humored by the insane man.

"You are quite right, Dr. Watson. Rape was never one of my moves. You'd be my first, my only."

John didn't feel special about that. He felt a sudden urge to tear his eyes away from Moriarty's own, but he didn't. His therapist thought he got off on being in danger, experiencing the thrill of chasing down a threat or being in the presence of one. He wasn't feeling very excited right now. Curious, though, was something he could admit to in this moment. Uncovering why a master criminal did what he did, would be a Sherlock move, and was his presently.

"When first we met, I had you to take that moment away from Sherlock."

It blurted out like a reflex, sounding irritated and tired simultaneously. "We were never a couple. I'm not gay."

Moriarty laughed softly. "You are so blind..and naive."

"More insults to my intelligence. Never had that before."

His captor seemed to like his snark and continued on as though John was being encouraging. "I enjoyed having you all to myself, very much. After, there was no desire to have any other in such a way. There really is something special about you."

"Lovely," he uttered, tilting his head out of Moriarty's free hand which had been cupping the back of his head until then.

"Yes, you are."

A disturbed look passed over his face and it made Moriarty laugh again, louder this time. "I've always loved to hurt people. You, you're so good! Makes it all the more..pleasurable."

At the word, "pleasurable", Moriarty buried his face into John's neck and bit down. He gasped and tried to squirm away but the wrist he didn't have hold of meant a hand was there to push down on his old shoulder wound. He quickly picked up that the harder he tried to get away, the more force there would be exerted on his sensitive scar.

With an annoyed grunt, he forced himself to still and let the man continue to ravish his neck with teeth and lips until he was good and finished. Pulling back from the neck, Moriarty applied a quick kiss to his lips before letting one hand trail all the way down his body to a place much lower.

"Do you want to hold my hand? Like last time?"

The question startled him. He was both completely surprised and not at all. John couldn't decide how to handle such a demented soul. Rapes, like he's making love. He very much knew Jim Moriarty had never made love with anyone, except with him in this sick and twisted manner. Sex was another story and he found himself wondering why the man couldn't just rape like every other dirtbag rapist. Rape was typically about displaying power over the victim with force and violence. Moriarty didn't do that. Raping sweetly. John was certain he was going to throw up, very soon. He didn't want this. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want this to be happening to him. He wished Sherlock alive so he could come to the rescue. Then changed his mind, deciding he'd rather Sherlock never know about the things done to him by their enemy.

John took the offered hand, like Moriarty knew he would, fingers interlocking. Somehow, keeping hold of his hand like it was some kind of lifeline, allowed him to take the suffering without too much struggle. It was like gripping the hand let him keep himself held together. Still, when Moriarty began to move inside of him, wet tears began to stream unstoppably down his cheeks.

Fingers came up to wipe them away, gently. Hatred burned in his chest at the kind gesture, knowing it was anything but kind. This was Moriarty gloating at his victory over John. Verbally, he confirmed John's belief that he was satisfied with himself.

"Spirit. That's what you've got. The light in your eyes. Your being good. I wonder if I can break you of that. Do you think I can make you loyal to me?"

A particularly hard thrust caused him to grunt. It hadn't been entirely painful and that bothered him. Goddamn it! Was it too much to ask for someone to leave him be? This was nothing he'd been trained for. Oh God, Moriarty had said he'd punish him for trying to kill him. If the man could keep him for hours simply for knowing Sherlock, how long would he be kept this time? He didn't want to die, but he figured death would be preferrable over continuous torment at Moriarty's hands.

Speaking of hands, he squeezed his assailant's tight when the man quickened his pace as he neared climax. He buried his face into the bedsheet the best he could from his current position. He wanted to die but he didn't want to die. Such a paradox. Suicide had been enough for Sherlock. Maybe it was something to consider.

Four days into his captivity, kept in the same hotel room, kept occupied by Moriarty; the man dressed and left for the first time, leaving John alone. An opportunity for a run to freedom? He was aching, everywhere, and naked, but it didn't leave him helpless. If he had to, he was in good enough condition to fight or flee.

He forced himself to wait ten full minutes to ensure his captor was truly gone, before sliding off the bed. For a second he considered grabbing up the sheet to cover himself, then decided against it since the material was coated in bodily fluids he'd rather not revisit. There was only one way in or out of the room, locked, as he'd assumed. He peeked through the peephole and felt his hopes dashed upon sight of Sebastian Moran pacing back and forth in front of the door.

Didn't anyone see the man and find it suspicious? Moriarty had a lot of wealth to his criminal enterprise. He very well might have bought out every room on the floor just to ensure their privacy. Ugh, the thought wasn't a pleasant one. Giving up on the primary exit and entrance as a viable option, he moved to the large windows. Too high up, no wide ledge to conceivably utilize to move to another room.

Two minutes was all it took to know there was no way out. Well, that wasn't entirely accurate. He searched the room and migrated over to the bathroom. He'd been allowed to utilize the shower and toilet every evening of his captivity. There was a shower, toilet, sink, and mirror. Nothing sharp to use as a weapon, yet. He took the soap dish and slammed it into the mirror, shattering it to pieces. Stooping to pick up the largest one, he placed it to his wrist. As a doctor, he knew right where to cut, how deep, and how much blood it would take to die. This would be better because then he'd be with Sherlock again at least. More importantly, he wouldn't be here.

"You don't have to die."

John started and cut himself a little by accident. He looked up to see Moran standing in the bathroom doorway. It dawned on him that it was very much like Moriarty to have the place wired with surveillance. The cameras could have been in place before he'd ever set foot in the hotel room, or during the time he'd been unconscious, however long that had been. His only sense of time here was when the sun rose and set each day, and the routine bathroom breaks.

Moran answered his questioning face by raising his cell phone screen towards him. "The cameras feed to this and are motion sensitive. Put the glass down, Captain Watson."

"Captain? I don't get called-Ah. So I was right. You're former military yourself."

"I was a colonel, once. Then freelance work, then.."

"Moriarty." John finished for him.

"You have a much better chance than most, to live. Killing yourself is unnecessary. When work calls upon him, he'll leave and he'll let you go."

"When's that? You can't possibly know if he will. He thinks I'm some kind of pet for him to do with as he pleases. This may never end."

"It will. A man like him doesn't have time to stay dormant for so long. The fact that he has for this long actually speaks volumes about you."

"How do you mean?"

"He likes you."

John practically choked on his weak response. "What?"

"I'm one of the few employees he bothers to confide in on occasion. He likes you and it infuriates him. I know you've noticed, too, his other weakness aside from being changeable."

"I don't-"

Moran pocketed the phone and gave John a knowing look. "You do know. You've seen it by how comfortable he's become around you and no, it isn't an act. Does that surprise you?"

It did. It shocked John to the core. What he'd been seeing, Moriarty listening to music and tapping to the beat, the chronic gum chewing habit he'd observed, how sometimes he asked questions about the "regular" people and how they lived, was all genuine.

"That doesn't make sense. You don't hold someone prisoner and rape them on a periodic basis if you like them. I know he's insane but that's just-no. It's not possible. I'm nothing but a boring regular person to him."

The other man continued to look at him. John sighed.

"Why do this to me then?" he asked, voice coming out weaker than he'd like. He was exhausted, having not slept at all since waking from the brutal beating done by the very man staring at him.

"It began as a punishment. Now, he just likes you. He's never liked anyone before."

"What? He seemed to have a thing for Sherlock. Your boss was obsessed and wouldn't let it go until Sherlock was dead."

Moran shook his head in disagreement. "He hates Sherlock Holmes. The man is one who rivals him in intelligence and he can't stand it. Superiority complex and all that." His eyes trailed up and down John once, then reached over to grab one of the towels on the shelf. Offering it to him, he said, "You can call me Sebastian. I think we're at a first name basis, yes? Now John, I don't have any desire to see you die, but I follow orders, so don't do anything stupid and the most that'll happen is the sex."

Sex? Horrific rape was much more accurate. He took the towel and fixed it around his waist. Despite Moran's obvious lack of understanding for his current predicament, his mind really was stuck on what Moran, Sebastian, had said about the criminal mastermind liking him. John couldn't believe what he was hearing. Moriarty was a criminal of the worst kind, a monster. For some reason his mind shifted over to the first day he'd spent here, when he allowed John to take his hand for the duration of the raping. He'd let John have his hand to grip the final time he'd forced him years ago at the pool, too. He flinched a little, sexual assault memories could do that to you, and suddenly knew he did believe Sebastian.

Horror, shock, and disbelief passed through him. Why would Moriarty do anything to comfort him? Why would he keep him as a live-in and spend time trying to have conversations with his stonily unresponsive captive? His initial thought was some kind of morbid curiosity, but he was rarely right the first time so he went with his next thought.

"Loneliness."

Sebastian confirmed it. "His other weakness. Believe me, he does not talk about that one ever."

Silence for a long moment, which he broke himself.

"How can you know?"

"Spend enough time around anyone and you eventually see things."

"See things like this?"

Moran stiffened and solidified his stance into one of an obedient soldier, turning to face his boss. Moriarty was standing just outside the bathroom, hands in his pockets of the expensive suit he'd not left the hotel in. John wondered what might have gotten on the old one to warrant the change. It was probably best not to know.

"And what..dare I ask, might I be seeing, Sebastian?"

It didn't take much for John to realize Moriarty's dead calm was a mask for the anger hidden just beneath. His eyes were dark, near black. The eyes swept the fair-sized bathroom, finally taking in the shattered mirror, him, and the shard still placed against a wrist, the blood dripping from the accidental cut.

"Moran. Return to your post. Your services are no longer required."

Relief that he'd escaped unscathed crossed over his features and then he was gone, leaving John alone. He suspected he was going to face punishment for his actions. A single glance at the situation and he knew his captor knew what had nearly transpired. The good news was that he likely thought Sebastian had only come to stop his suicide attempt and had no knowledge of the conversation between them. Well, it was better news for Moriarty's employee anyway. He doubted he would be granted any sort of reprieve as the "pet".

Moriarty removed his hands from his pockets and stepped inside, closing the bathroom door behind him. Suddenly the room seemed a heck of a lot more confined.

"I thought about paying you a visit before you came to me in this hotel, before you figured out I was alive. Maybe finishing you off so you could join your precious detective consultant in the afterlife." Moriarty shared, eyes randomly glancing upwards at the corners of the ceiling as he spoke.

"I didn't figure you to be one for mercy."

He'd always been an honest person. Why stop just because some vicious psychopath had him trapped in a bathroom? Besides, Moriarty could see through the lies, not unlike Mycroft. Wow, now there was a name that filled him with hot anger. He'd not spoken more than two word phrases to the elder Holmes brother since the day Sherlock died, despite numerous attempts on the part of the other to get in contact with him.

His thoughts vanished when Moriarty grinned rather maliciously at him, moving forward and stopping about a foot away. Too close.

"Oh, I'm not. But you just looked so sad already. Devastated. Alone. No longer running around being a nuisance to my work with your..partner. And it seems you've found a new fire to get you going again of late. That light in your eyes has returned. Determination to do good and not just be good, right Johnny?" He didn't want a reply and he didn't wait for one. "I've heard rumors of late. Hard to believe rumors about you."

John tensed but made sure not to give anything away. Moriarty couldn't possibly know what he'd been up to when Mycroft Holmes wasn't even aware. Interrogation apparently wasn't on the list for today's torments, however, and the man settled for taking hold of John's arm that held the sharp piece of glass.

He thought about using that piece to commit an act of homicide, but almost immediately discarded the idea. Even if it worked, he didn't believe Moran would hesitate to come in and shoot him dead. Moriarty eased the shard out of his loose grasp with ease, and then jammed it so deep into the small cut on his left arm that he swore it scraped bone. Searing pain exploded across the entirety of his arm but when he tried to reach to pull it out, the grip on that arm tightened until he thought his wrist would shatter.

"Suicide will not suffice for your end, Johnny. Oh no. It won't do at all."

The madness sparkled in Moriarty's eyes and he had to swallow down the bile and fear creeping up his throat.

"On your knees."

He followed the command, praying his obedience would mean the glass could be removed. It was taken out, so that it could be traced along his jawline and then throat. He kept himself very still, not wanting to give Moriarty a reason to cut him open. John was aware those were strange thoughts for a man convinced about taking his own life five minutes ago. Maybe he hadn't been as resigned to commit the act as he'd thought. He wished he was. Then he wouldn't be sitting with his knees on cold tile while Moriarty held a razor sharp piece of glass to his neck.

"I gave him a choice."

Somehow, John knew exactly who the "him" was, even before it was said. The pair of them had only ever had one man in common. His gaze flickered from watching the glass at his throat, to the dark eyes boring into his own.

"Three bullets. Three targets. They died, or he did."

Once again he found himself horrified. Sherlock had jumped because he'd had no other option. That had always been something that bothered him about the day it happened. Sherlock and suicide hadn't quite gone together. The man might have been reckless and disregarded his own safety quite frequently simply for the thrill of solving a case or discovering an answer, but the call from his friend on the roof had been different.

"You made him jump."

"The choice was his. It was hardly my fault he cared more for you than himself. I had hoped he wouldn't be so weak, so predictable. Then again, I _was_ counting on it."

Spoken so matter-of-factly. Yes, John decided, he really would like to take that piece of glass and stab the other man in his cold, black heart.

"You said three targets."

Raising his blood covered right hand, he ticked them off. "You, the landlady, and the cop. Though, really, he jumped cause of you. Yours was the only name he spoke."

"He probably did that since you used me against him before."

"And why do you think that was?"

The glass slid into his chest so easily, it was like cutting through butter. Much more painful when it went into skin though. John stared at the tool responsible for his great pain as Moriarty moved it about his chest, pushing it in an inch at most, before pulling it out and repeating at a different spot. Not deep enough to do any serious harm, but plenty deep enough to hurt like hell. He supposed it was lucky it'd taken till the fifth day for Moriarty to do more than just rape him over and over, have one-sided conversations, and, well, the fairly unpleasant beating that began his capture of course.

Jesus. Had he really become this numb to his situation? No wonder he'd considered suicide. He'd accepted this hell as his reality and that was certainly not all right. Suicidal thoughts now though..Moriarty had succeeded in what John knew he'd intended. He had wanted to ensure John wouldn't attempt suicide as a way out again and he wouldn't because now he understood. Sherlock wouldn't have jumped if he had had any other choice. It had been a sacrifice. A bloody stupid one.

Moriarty seemed to notice his mind was straying because he spoke his name, low and dangerous, and then shoved him so he fell flat on his back. The towel was ripped away and the glass being utilized as a weapon was drawing crimson lines down his inner thighs enthusiastically. His left arm still throbbed with pain so that remained limp at his side, but the other he repeatedly curled into a fist as he tried desperately to name each and every bone that resided in the hand. Each curl of his fist brought a wave of discomfort from what was possibly a fractured wrist. In comparison to the white hot pain radiating from his thighs as they were sliced into, it was tolerable and gave him something to focus on.

The agony was so intense, he hadn't noticed the cutting had ceased until Moriarty's face was suddenly in his, staring directly into his eyes. A quick glance down informed him that the weapon had been tossed aside somewhere. The eyes were lighter than before and the owner of those eyes looked puzzled a bit.

"I'm sorry, John," he whispered softly into his ear. "It just gets to me that he thinks he can fool me. I've won. He may still breathe but I've won."

Before he could even so much as choke out a baffled word in return, Moriarty pushed inside of him in one smooth motion. He'd never even noticed him unzip his trousers. The previous times made it easier this time, and the blood served as an excellent lubrication to allow such an intrusion. He didn't _think_ he was going to anymore, he _was _going to. Jerking his head to the side, he threw up all over blood-soaked tile. Moriarty made a sound that he supposed was meant to mimic sympathy, and his hand moved up to brush locks of his hair back from his forehead. It was an annoyingly comforting gesture considering what was happening.

Two hours later and he'd been bathed, injuries stopped from bleeding with a chemical hemostat acquired God knows how. It wasn't optimal treatment and his wounds were going to need much more care than that, but it served the purpose of keeping him alive and conscious, courtesy of Moran. Yes, how fortunate for him that Moriarty wanted to keep him breathing. Breathing... He knew he shouldn't think such things but ever since he'd heard Moriarty slip out that Sherlock was breathing, he held the hope that it was true.

He half laid, half sat upright on the bed, pillows cushioning his back and head, a sheet drawn up and crumpled around his lower stomach. Moriarty had gone out again, for maybe an hour, and when he'd returned he'd been on the phone, speaking harsh words to whomever was on the other end. John had just continued to sit where Moran had put him, staring out the window at the mid-afternoon sunlight.

The call must have ended because suddenly Moriarty plopped down beside him on the bed. When he'd gone out, he had exchanged the ruined Westwood suit for a pair of jeans and a simple cotton t-shirt. Easing himself into a similar position as John, he switched on the television. Temporarily, he shifted, and then produced a small package in his hand, holding it out towards John.

"Gum?"

Never had such a simplistic question made him so afraid. He hated witnessing the human side of Moriarty. It made him feel like he could fix him because he was a doctor and doctors helped people. He let the fear fade into the recesses of his mind as he continued to stare at the telly blankly. He'd been given pain pills but was still in pain and aside from that, he was so tired.

Reaching out to accept the gum, he asked, "Figure on a name for me?"

Moriarty let out a delighted laugh and he ignored the voice inside his head that was telling him he didn't mind that laugh. An arm came around his shoulder, tugging him gently down so that his head rested on Moriarty's right shoulder and chest.

"You're so very tired. You need to sleep."

He really was exhausted, the medication enough to at least dull the incessant throbbing of the nerves in his whole body. Fear and pain could only keep him awake for so long, and his current pillow was actually kind of comfortable. The feel of the wrapped stick of gum held in his palm became just another fading sensation. Darkness began to creep around the edges of his mind and his eyes grew heavy. As they began to flutter closed, he felt lips ghost along the top of his forehead.

"To live is to suffer, my hound."

Hound, not just dog or mutt. A hound was known for its loyalty and was a symbol of bravery and honor. He did believe Moriarty had just complimented him. That was new. He drifted into a deep sleep and somehow knew he would sleep without any nightmares to plague him. A relief, when his waking hours were a nightmare unto itself.

Jim glanced down at his insistent phone. He'd fallen asleep along with Dr. Watson some time ago. Seven hours had passed actually and his duties were impatiently awaiting him. He had received plenty of consulting opportunities since the time he began keeping the man curled against his side in this hotel room. He'd accepted only a few since he was otherwise occupied these last few days.

Shutting off his phone, he shoved it in his pocket and pulled the doctor closer, switching to a news channel before tossing the remote onto the desk beside the bed. A recent suicide was being reported of a man who jumped to his death. He smirked. What they didn't know was that the man's wife had been dosing her husband's contact lensing with a solution that made him prone to depression. He'd seen it on a show once and so when the opportunity presented itself, he decided to try it out. Jim wouldn't be the only one in for a payday. The husband's estate was quite substantial and now belonged solely to the widow.

When the man in his arms shifted and began to wake, he realized what he was doing. He'd taken him prisoner and hurt him to make him pay for coming and trying to murder him. Torment had certainly been his game for the most part, but then there were those other parts, where he gave John a break and merely sat with him. Sometimes they talked, or rather he talked and John pretended to be ignoring him. Sometimes they watched television together or listened to music. In a way, it was a game in itself. Not one he was used to. Initially he'd found trying out domesticity to be amusing, but he found he rather liked it. A situation most inadvisable for a man such as him.

Bright eyes blinked up at him sleepily. Registering just who they were looking at, the eyes grew cold and distant. The reflection of hatred and a desire for self-preservation. He wasn't sure whether he wished to kill or kiss the man staring at him. After a long moment, the gaze became more tired than anything else, and looked away.

Damn. He was enjoying his time spent with John, who was supposed to be an average person. Average people were boring and dull. John wasn't the least bit boring or dull. Unacceptable. Why didn't he think he was? Why couldn't he? It must be having someone to control and hurt that pleased him. Another glance at those eyes told him differently. He very much liked John.

"Stay," he told John, and slipped off the bed and out of the room.

He had to be mistaken. He was never mistaken. Distance would do him good right now.

John watched him go but his thoughts remained elsewhere. Sherlock could be alive. It was possible. A long shot since the only evidence favoring such an outcome came from a man who'd destroyed Sherlock's reputation which resulted in his suicide. At least that was what he thought until yesterday. It could be that Moriarty was merely toying with him, giving a false belief in order to prolong his suffering over losing his best friend. Still, there was that feeling deep within him that he couldn't shake. Hope.

Day six. This was day six. He wondered if Moran had just been deceiving him about Moriarty letting him go. What if the man decided to take him with and continue treating him like nothing more than a pet or toy or whatever the insane man thought he was? He hadn't realized he'd made up his mind until the door was unlocking and Moriarty was stepping inside. He'd been spending the last hour walking back and forth in front of the window, out of some small idea that someone might see him and think something was amiss. That, and it took his mind off of the injuries. He needed a hospital. Surely he faced infection from so many cuts and stab wounds. If he couldn't get to a hospital and he couldn't get away, then maybe he could make it so Moriarty did want to leave him be.

Boring didn't work, so being a nuisance was worth a try.

"If Sherlock is alive. That means he beat you at your own game."

Moriarty froze mid-motion as he'd reached to turn on the lights to the room when he'd entered. A smile pasted onto his face, utterly fake, and he turned to regard John, waiting for whatever he was getting at. John wasn't really sure himself. He was sort of just going with this. Say anything that could get to him being the goal. Then maybe he'd be dead or out of this damned room. Either way, he'd be free.

"Does it bother you? Knowing you couldn't win against Sherlock?"

"I did win. He died."

His next words stuck in his throat temporarily. So maybe Moriarty had been messing with him. He gaze scanned the man now wearing yet another suit, wondering how much he wanted that freedom and how to go about it. Then he continued on.

"You said he was alive which means he might be. If he lives, you didn't win. Alive or dead, Sherlock's still better than you."

Now the smile that spread across Moriarty's face appeared genuine. "Are you trying to upset me, Dr. Watson?"

"You know, I'd say you lost your mind, keeping me here as a pet and thinking you and me can somehow be like Sherlock and I were, but-well-we both know you've been crazy long before ever meeting me."

Moriarty made a noise he couldn't distinguish, but he thought he was getting somewhere so he went the full distance.

"You've never been loved. It's sad, heart-breaking really. And you never will be, you continue this way."

The heated gaze was positively deadly. Death. This was probably going to earn him death. Oh well... He went for it.

"I don't think I can even hate you anymore. I mean, you're a monster, no mistaking it. And I hate you for what you've done, to me, to Sherlock, to all those innocent people. But honestly, Moriarty, knowing you'll never know love, I pity you."

He said the words simply, like he was stating facts. He figured Moriarty could appreciate that since he did it so often. Then again, even if he spoke the truth, it was an unwanted truth.

The first blow hit him in the face so hard it felt like his teeth were rattling around his mouth. He'd known Moriarty capable of dealing damage since he'd learned the hard way that the man was stronger than he appeared, but still, it hurt. The second blow took him to the ground but he didn't fight it. There was little point in fighting back when he knew Moran would enter and put a stop to him if he got the better of Moriarty.

He bit back a scream when a kick landed against bruised ribs and he heard a crack. Blow after blow rained down upon his already messed up body and he just laid there, eyes squeezed shut tight to try and handle the agony of the assault. Even with pain radiating throughout his whole self, he managed to maintain a single thought that made it just bearable. He'd gotten the upper hand here. Moriarty beating him down like this for mere words said, meant he'd gotten to the criminal mastermind.

Blood was welling up in his mouth as his attacker focused on pulverizing his face. So this was how it was going to end, bloody and naked and so alone. He didn't like being alone.

Just when he thought he was going to pass out, he became aware that the attack had stopped. When had that happened? The passage of time was really a tricky thing when you were getting the crap beat out of you. A rougher face than Moriarty's appeared in his now hazy line of sight. Moran. He was saying something to John but it sounded garbled. He did manage to make out the last bit that was being said to him though.

"I told you he was pissed about it."

Pissed about what? Oh, the whole inconceivable ideas that Moriarty liked John, and that the man got lonely. Ridiculous notions and even more ridiculous, it made John want to laugh, even through the blood and tears streaming down his badly swelling face. He did think he actually managed a smile before finally losing consciousness. God, he hadn't smiled since Sherlock died. He supposed it was only fitting he manage to smile one last time before his own death.

To live is to suffer, Moriarty had said. If he died, it seemed his own suffering had ended. Maybe he'd get to see Sherlock again. That was his final thought, and then he thought nothing.


	4. Sherlock's Visits

**Chapter 3**

**Sherlock's Visits**

The first night Sherlock visited 221b, it was after four in the morning, the time it took for John to finally fall asleep. Over six months had gone by since he falsified his own suicide, a decision that pained him to have done. It was necessary, however, or he'd have lost everyone that mattered. He'd have lost John.

His temporary return stemmed from a series of texts he received from his brother over the last few weeks. Mycroft hadn't known he'd faked his death until then, and apparently the suspicion arose from someone who was meant to be as dead as Sherlock. Jim..Moriarty...still alive and not at all fooled by Sherlock's vanishing act. The first few texts had meant nothing. Then there came a text that meant everything, sent two weeks ago.

_Bravo, you managed to fool me for a full five months. It's time to stop this game now, Sherlock. -MH_

_You are not the only one to play dead. -MH_

_He's back. Now do you understand the gravity of the situation? -MH_

_Come home. John needs you. -MH_

This text had finally elicited a response from him, annoyed his brother would attempt to use John to get him to stop pretending to be dead. He was only doing this to keep his friends safe. If his brother couldn't understand that, it was his own problem, not Sherlock's.

_Really? I didn't expect you to stoop so low to get me to return and clean up your mess. Whatever Moriarty does to your precious government is of your concern, not mine. -SH_

_Two weeks ago, John made an attempt on Moriarty's life. Do I have your attention? -MH_

Mycroft wouldn't lie about something like this, not even to draw him out. A sinking feeling came over Sherlock and before texting back, he'd swallowed hard to try and erase the growing fear. The text that meant everything would be his brother's next and final text before Sherlock came home.

_What happened? -SH_

_He failed. Moriarty kept him for six days, then released him. -MH_

Now here he was, creeping silently into John's bedroom, almost two weeks since the texts from Mycroft. Maybe he should have come back earlier. Maybe he should never have gone at all. No, he'd had no choice but to go, to play dead. Yet the choice had apparently not entirely saved John, which had been his intention all along.

He made it five minutes sitting by John's side as he tossed and turned. Then he exited as silently as he had come. He couldn't afford John seeing him, exposing his lie. He feared it would hurt John more to know he was still alive.

The second night Sherlock visited 221b, he stood in the shadows of the room and watched John throughout the night. Like the previous occasion, he tossed and turned and cried out. This time he stayed to see what sleep was like for his friend through the duration. He woke every hour or less, and after four hours, he practically flew out of the bed to run into the bathroom. Retching noises emitted from the other side of the door as Sherlock moved to lean against it. He had to force himself to leave then, before he gave in and revealed himself.

The third night Sherlock visited 221b, he'd been unable to visit because John had not slept. When he finally decided to risk it, he slipped inside the flat to find John had fallen asleep on the sofa. Quietly, he moved away from the front door and knelt beside where John was sleeping. He was moaning softly, his eyes squeezed forcefully shut, face tightened in a sort of grimace. Before he was even aware he was doing it, his hand had reached forward to touch the stress lines on John's face. There were bags under the eyes and he traced his fingers over those as well. Slowly, his hand moved up to the hairline to gently brush back the hair.

He froze when John made a different noise, afraid he'd been found out. John shifted slightly on the sofa, leaning into the touch, but he didn't wake. Relaxing, he resumed his repetitive action and was pleased to find it seemed to allow John to sleep more peacefully. The grimace faded away and the tension around his eyes and forehead lessened. He stayed this way for another twenty minutes before his fear of being caught by John or Mrs. Hudson got to him, and he reluctantly left.

Three days later, Mrs. Hudson left to see relatives out of the country and Sherlock came to the decision it was the perfect opportunity to ensure John got some actual sleep. He set about making a few alterations to John's favorite tea set while the man was away, working at the hospital he presumed. When the alterations were complete, he vacated the flat to await his good friend's return. John came home late, nearly after midnight. It was a long time to be working a shift at the hospital considering how early he'd started, but Sherlock pushed those thoughts away in favor of observing from behind a car parked across the street from their building.

This marked the fourth night Sherlock visited 221b, and he slipped in to find himself satisfied John's habits had not changed entirely. Whenever John came home from work, he made himself a cup of tea and sat down in his chair to enjoy it. When Sherlock had been there, often John would watch him, whatever he was doing. Now, as he entered the flat, he found his friend asleep, television on of some crap crime show or other. Glancing into the cup, Sherlock was satisfied to see he had ingested most of it, securing a solid night of sleep for him.

He grabbed one of John's arms, flinging it over his shoulder, and then picked up the rest of him, carrying him in a fireman's hold. Taking him into the bedroom, he dropped him on the bed and realized he'd done it a tad more carelessly than he could have, but brushed it off. Things to do and all that.

Sherlock started on his shoes and socks and was just getting the last sock off when he felt another presence in the room. He already knew who it was without turning. The only tell that he'd noticed was a brief pause in his work, and then he continued getting John out of his dirty clothes.

"Is this really necessary?"

He ignored his brother and sat back on his heels once he'd successfully removed everything but the pants. He had ulterior motives aside from making John more comfortable in the bed and Mycroft already knew so he continued. It was bad. Somehow he'd thought just maybe Moriarty had kept John captive to taunt and gloat but do little physical damage. An unlikely idea in the first place. But when he didn't have all the facts, it was one he could convince himself of, until now.

Nearly a month had passed since Moriarty had hold of John. The injuries nearly a month old and still, his stomach was wrapped tight with bandages, a section of his left arm was wrapped in white gauze, multi-colored bruises were scattered across near every inch of skin, and there were also a number of healing cuts and stab wounds, primarily on the upper chest area. The most disturbing injuries were lower on his body, between his legs. There was extensive bruising on the inner thighs, along with multiple slash marks. He knew his crimes. These were injuries of a sexual nature.

His breath caught in his throat and he found himself frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the mottled flesh. He hadn't profiled James Moriarty as someone sadistic enough to rape. To make others suffer, certainly. To gain pleasure from toying with people, absolutely. To go so far with John, didn't fit. Did Moriarty really take such offense to an attempt on his life? He didn't believe so. A man that convinced of his own power and intellect wouldn't need to lower himself to such an act. What was he missing?

A sigh reminded him of his brother's presence in the room. "At the time of hospitalization he was in a coma for a week. Hundreds of cuts and bruises were documented, along with several broken ribs, a fractured wrist, stab wounds on the chest and left arm, and anal trauma from obvious repeated assault. Upon waking, patient checked out against medical advice, refusing to press charges or make a statement."

"He knew it wouldn't have mattered. Nobody gets to Moriarty."

Mycroft closed the medical file in his hand, observing his brother who was yet unable to remove his eyes from the cuts on the inner thighs of the prone man. "Do stop that. Blaming yourself will do nothing to help John."

"This happened because of John's association with me. I owe him to see what I brought on him."

"This happened because John made a fool-hardy attempt on Moriarty's life."

"You're blaming John?"

"I blame Moriarty, as you rightly should. For God's sake, Sherlock, your self-flagellation only serves to empower your enemies and do little else."

Sherlock moved closer and leaned down, examining the bandaged ribs with prying fingers. He had to switch over to looking with a clinical mind, not emotional. He didn't do emotions. His brother didn't either, yet...

"He will heal."

Was this an attempt to comfort him? He kept his focus on examining the wounds John sustained, cataloging every inch of skin. Mycroft, of all people, didn't do comfort, especially to him. Too touchy, feely for the Holmes brothers. He had no interest in playing this game of pretending everything was all right.

"Physically. But Moriarty has always prided himself more on the mind. That's what I'm worried for."

"Worried, Sherlock?"

The patronizing tone made him rethink his brother had actually been trying to be sensitive. He fixed a scowl onto the man standing in the doorway but it hardly seemed to have an effect, as usual. Mycroft gazed back at him, a neutral gaze setting in.

"Evidence seems to suggest he is mostly healthy in mind. Rather, no worse than before at the very least. Aside from his disrupted sleep pattern of late, he's been fully functional. He goes to and from this flat or his second flat, has resumed speaking to his sister and Lestrade, though with the detective it is strictly business. Seems he still partially blames the man for turning against you and allowing your reputation to be tarnished."

That was putting it lightly. A single seed of doubt was a powerful thing. He tore his critical search from John's body to Mycroft's face. What had he meant, second flat? He supposed he had heard of people having a difficult time remaining in surroundings that reminded them of something they'd rather not remember. Anyway, it was something to be disregarded for now. This business with Lestrade though. That was interesting. Oh, his brother was speaking still.

"For you to know," Mycroft was saying, "If you require such reassurance."

Sherlock scoffed to himself. The words were said as though they meant nothing to the speaker but that was patently untrue. For Mycroft to keep tabs on John even in this reduced capacity meant he held concern for his well-being and future activities. Interesting.

"I did believe you to be truly dead. Everyone did. Though now I suspect Miss Hooper may have had knowledge of your continued survival."

He stared at Mycroft who was staring at the lines on John's thighs. There was an emotion he didn't ever see in his brother's eyes. A deep sadness that he thought didn't have entirely to do with John's condition. When Mycroft lifted his gaze to meet his own, Sherlock looked away.

"Sentiment...You said caring was not an advantage. Look at you now."

"Yes, well, it hardly seems to stop us at times."

"Stop us from what?" he asked, absently stroking the side of John's face.

"Caring."

Sherlock noticed what he'd been doing and stilled, lowering the hand back to John's own limp one, then looked to his brother.

"You need to speak to John. Tell him he can't live like this. He should be seeing his therapist or whatever."

"He needs you I assume."

"Just do it," he snapped at his brother, who was settling into a chair at the desk on the other side of the room.

"I'm afraid John doesn't speak to me anymore. Not since..your untimely passing."

Sherlock frowned and narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. "What? Why?"

"Probably has something to do with my role in your demise."

There weren't words for that admission. His brother did tend to exaggerate though. He wondered if this was not one of those times.

"John has been up to something over the past few months. Visits to the local university, visits to places out of the city, unknown-though I do believe a woman may be involved. I have not done any excess prying there, however, as giving John his privacy was the least I could do after..."

"What did you do? What could have made John so mad that he won't even talk to you?"

"I gave Moriarty your life story."

Sherlock froze, the betrayal spoken so simply. "And why would you do that?"

"When he was in my custody, I gave him your life story, he gave me information I required. In the end-"

"It resulted in my "dying". Wonderful. Thanks for that."

Mycroft was silent. Whether he had anything more to say would either have to wait or never be known because an idea struck him far too forcefully to wait another moment.

"Whatever John's been up to, maybe he wrote about it. Has he written in his blog since my..fall?"

The man shook his head once. "No...I don't believe so. I monitored the site for a few months before it clearly became obvious it wasn't worth the effort."

"John's written in his blog..twice, not counting the comments section. I fancy John."

Two sets of blue eyes glanced over to the door. Mycroft's assistant was leaning against the door's frame, her own eyes glued to her cell phone. Her full attention switched over to Sherlock as she shrugged off his surprise at both her sudden presence and her sudden confession.

"Don't ever tell him I said that."

Anthea shifted towards Mycroft, though her interest was once again invested in her phone as she did so. "Twenty minutes, Sir."

Mycroft waved her away without sparing another glance. He was already peering over at the desk beside the bed and Sherlock matched the look, grabbing up the laptop. Flipping it open, the password prompt greeted him. Hm... It was never too difficult to crack John's rather pathetic attempts at a password, but he had been away for half a year.

"Oh, obvious."

He glared at his brother. "Do keep your thoughts to yourself. I haven't cracked a single case in six months. I need this."

"Sherlock." Mycroft said, sitting near him on the bed in order to get a view of the computer screen himself.

"What?"

He didn't bother hiding his annoyance.

"That's the password."

"You said you weren't keeping tabs on him much."

"A simple deduction, Sherlock. Something I see you've become rusty at while you've been laying low."

His eyes narrowed in irritation but he tried the entry anyway and it worked. His unfriendly expression lightened slightly when he arched an eyebrow in curiosity as to how his brother had known that would be the selected password.

The explanation was given dryly, the man bored. "I told you before, he needs you. Must you be so naive?"

What was that supposed to mean? Utilizing his name for a password was out of character for John and certainly far too easy for a hacker to guess. He didn't understand what his brother was getting at and it bothered him. More than he'd like to admit so he pushed it out of his mind and focused on the task at hand.

The blog up, he leaned in to read the only two entries entered in the period between his falsified death and now. Mycroft leaned forward beside him to read but he ignored the stifling closeness. He was never this close to his brother.

THE PERSONAL BLOG OF

**DR. JOHN H. WATSON**

_4th January_

**33 ENTRY: ****Released From Hospital**

Even if you can't hear or see me, I'm right beside you. I still believe. Don't be dead.

_COMMENTS_

John! What the hell happened? It's been six days since anyone's seen or heard from you. Explain now! Are you okay? _-Harry_

_Reply to Harry_

Surprised you even noticed. _-JW_

_Reply to JW_

I've been sober since you went missing. Still am. What happened? I want to see you. _-Harry_

_Comment_

Don't be thick. File a report. I want the bastard who did this to you. _-G. Lestrade_

_Reply to G. Lestrade_

I'm fine to the both of you. Don't really feel like a visit, Harry. _-JW_

_Comment_

I'm so relieved to hear you're all right. Let us celebrate your surviving another day with a pint, yeah? _-Mike Stamford_

_Comment_

Why a visit to hospital? You should visit me more often. You've been so distracted since... I worry, dear. _-Mrs. Hudson_

_Comment_

Will you see me? I haven't seen you for months. Just a quick visit, no questions. _-G. Lestrade_

_Reply to G. Lestrade_

No, Greg. I can't. _-JW_

_Reply to JW_

At least you're speaking to me again. Keep it together. You're not alone. _-G. Lestrade_

_Comment_

I'm sorry..for everything. I should never have doubted him. As much as I dislike him, I shouldn't have let my feelings influence my reports. Lestrade has told me some things and I am so sorry for my part in spreading the lie. I know who hurt you, John. Maybe if we would have believed you both, then this wouldn't have happened to you. No need to reply. I don't expect you to. _-S. Donovan_

_Comment_

I want to see you, John. Don't push me away. Not this time. Please. _-Harry_

_Reply to Harry_

Fine, Harry. You'll need to come here. Moving about is still a chore right now. _-JW_

_23rd January_

**34 Entry: Can't Define What I'm After**

All that I feel are the parts of me I'm faking. How many times can I pray to my shadow? They say it only takes time but I'm shattered.

_COMMENTS_

Come for a visit. _-Harry_

_Comment_

I'm glad you come around the station but please, have a pint or something nothing to do with whatever it is that new job requires. We used to be friends. Now I hardly see you and it's only when you need something. I can't lose you, too. _-G. Lestrade_

_Reply to G. Lestrade_

I can't pretend things are like they were. How can you? -JW

_Reply to JW_

I'm not a fool. I know you're into something dangerous. I wish you'd ask for my help but since you're about as stubborn as he was, fine. Just be careful. _-G. Lestrade_

_Comment_

Oh, dear. Will you join me for afternoon tea sometime soon? _-Mrs. Hudson_

_Comment_

I have news. I've been to see Clara and she's decided to stay with me at our townhouse for a while. Will you come? _-Harry_

_Reply to Mrs. Hudson_

Tea would be lovely. I look forward to it. _-JW_

_Comment_

I am always willing to help you, John. But when you told me you were tired of being a poor, depressing sod and took the job, I didn't know what you were dealing with. Do you even know? _-TW_

_Comment_

I'll pop in for a visit tomorrow afternoon? _-Mrs. Hudson_

_Reply to TW_

You don't need to worry about me. I eagerly await your arrival, Mrs. H. _-JW_

_Comment_

I procured some information. I could send it to you, if you'd like? _-TW_

_Reply to TW_

Don't risk yourself for me. _-JW_

_Reply to JW_

I would always risk myself for you. _-TW_

_Reply to TW_

Thank you. I mean that. But I know what I've gotten myself into. I have to handle this on my own. Not safe. _-JW_

_Comment_

Clara and I are going to lunch on Friday. Join, please? _-Harry_

_Reply to Harry_

All right. Lunch would be fine. _-JW_

_Reply to JW_

Yes! Can't wait! _-Harry_

The phone began to ring on the bedside. He turned back to the blog but it was at an end. He clicked out of the site and shut the laptop, returning it to its place beside the bed. Did John always have a landline? He thought there'd only been a cell phone but he could have been wrong. Most of the time he didn't pay attention to the details when he didn't think they mattered. He settled into a seated position against the bed's headboard, taking John's hand in his own and taking the pulse as he did. It was reflex, and he just wanted to be sure everything was normal inside.

Sobbing came over the phone after the answering machine picked up. Sherlock and Mycroft glanced at each other before looking to the phone.

_"Jjjj..Jooohn. John. It's Clara. Something's happened..to Harry. It's Harry, John. Someone attacked her. A man forced her to drink until she passed out. She drank a lot, John. It's serious. She..She needs to see you, John. Please, we need you. We need you here."_

The machine clicked off.

"Still think this is about you?"

Sherlock scowled at his brother but he didn't have an answer for him.


	5. The Past Rekindled

**Chapter 4**

**The Past Rekindled**

When John woke, feeling surprisingly well-rested, he blinked away the sleepiness from his eyes. He didn't remember finding his way to his bed or undressing to his pants. He didn't remember inviting Mycroft Holmes into his flat, let alone his bedroom, either.

He sat up fast, wincing and holding a hand to his ribcage. The sheet crumpled forgotten, down around his waist. Staring at the man staring rather intently at him, he cleared his throat, thoughts racing through his mind. Did Mycroft somehow know about what he'd been up to these past couple of months? Worse yet, had he learned of what Moriarty had done to him? He'd been brought to a hospital, either by Moriarty's command or by someone who found him probably dumped on some random street, so he supposed Mycroft having knowledge of that incident was a given. Damn. He remembered his present condition as being less than ideal and attempted to cover the worst of it with the sheet, suddenly self-conscious.

"A bit late for that, don't you think?"

There were a lot of different reactions he considered having, but he settled for resignation. Although he'd just slept a good while, he was feeling very tired with Mycroft's weighty presence in the room. The man could read a person as easily as he read a newspaper.

"Right, well, can you enlighten me as to what you're doing in my bedroom? Um..How long have you been there exactly?"

"For as long as you've been asleep. Does that bother you?"

"Does that-Are you joking?"

"Pulling your leg, perhaps." Mycroft said, the corners of his lips twitching slightly. Then he became very serious, very fast. "I need you to come with me, John. Please get dressed."

"Why?" he demanded.

He decided he did not want to go anywhere with the other man. For the last six months he'd said nothing more than "piss off" to Mycroft, and now he had the nerve to come uninvited into his bedroom. There couldn't possibly be a miscommunication going on here.

Mycroft climbed to his feet, leaning on the umbrella grasped in his right hand with practiced ease. His gaze was ever so intimidating but John wasn't about to let it change anything he had to say to the man. Problem was, he didn't want to say anything to him and he was beginning to get unnerved by the continuing silence that permeated the room.

"I understand your antics of late have been less than..usual."

Swallowing hard, he didn't back down from looking right into those annoyingly forceful eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Your blog, TW, an informant who has been helping you with whatever it is you've been up to."

"So you don't know."

The relief flooded through him but it didn't last long when Mycroft moved on and hadn't missed a beat in exposing John's secrets.

"I know Moriarty is alive and I know you didn't bother to tell anyone."

The comment initially had John rolling his eyes, and then the man added, "I know what he did to you, too. Don't know why you'd bother to hide it."

"Really? The great Mycroft Holmes can't figure that out?" he spoke with such derision, it obviously chided the posh man, but he covered it by tilting his head to the side and looking sympathetically towards John's marred body.

"John."

"What?" he practically yelled it.

John was getting worked up and he'd sworn he wasn't going to let his emotions get to him for once. Highly complicated to follow through on though, when the man he was trying desperately not to think of had a brother standing in his room. The important thing was that Mycroft was none the wiser about his activities in the NSA. His kept secret fell away when the serious expression returned, all business and calm.

"Your sister is in the hospital. I've a car waiting outside to take us there. It may have been Moriarty's doing. Must you be told anything else?"

He went with Mycroft.

_Two days later..._

Inspector Lestrade paced back and forth impatiently from one end of the basement morgue to the other. An anonymous tip leading to an exhumation order, expedited by a certain government official he highly suspected he knew, and here he was with Molly Hooper and several of his men, waiting for the result. Had he been miraculously fooled for half a year? If anyone could fake their death and get away with it, he supposed it would be Sherlock Holmes.

The lid of the casket finally removed, it became immediately clear he'd fooled them all. The casket was empty. His eyes roamed along the interior where a body belonged in irritation and relief. He'd been tricked, but his friend was alive. He still had the opportunity to apologize for doubting Sherlock like a right prick.

"Well if he's not in there, then where the bloody hell is he?"

His gaze found Molly, quite by accident, and he caught the lack of astonishment on her face. In fact, there wasn't a hint of surprise or happiness upon learning there wasn't a body in the casket and Sherlock was alive. He prided himself on being pretty decent at detecting and this was no exception.

"Molly, you knew. All this time you knew Sherlock wasn't in there."

Her eyes became as wide as saucers and she stuttered over whatever her response was to be. Lestrade would demand answers from her later but for now, something far more interesting was occurring. Sherlock Holmes, dressed in the same long black coat, same blue scarf wrapped around his neck, strolled in like it was any other day.

Molly was still trying to get the words out but a brisk wave of his hand in her general direction, along with his words, shut her up.

"Stop that. Hello, Lestrade. Looks like we can save the explanations since you've already seen I'm every bit alive and not in that casket."

"Save the explanations? What? Are you mad? Explain to me how that's possible!"

Sherlock had the nerve to literally try to wave him quiet as well. That really set him off. He'd worked an extra shift to personally oversee this sudden request for an exhumation and would rather go home to his family than be conferring with an assumed dead man, no matter how glad he was to learn he was among the living.

"Now see here, Sherlock Holmes! I want answers. I want to know how-no, nevermind how. I want to know _why_ you pretended to be dead."

"A simple enough matter to work out. Now, I came to see you about something else entirely. I need to know what you've been working with John on. What have the pair of you been up to while I was away? That's what interests me right now."

"Oh," he shook his head from side to side in disbelief. "So because answers are what interest you, that's what we'll talk about? Right. Nice to see you haven't changed a bit."

"Mm..thank you. Now, John."

"John. Now there's someone who is going to be upset about you. He's been having quite the miserable existence, what with seeing his best mate die before his eyes. At least, that's what he thought he saw. Well, I won't be talking to you about anything that's between me and John. I refuse. Now go and tell John you're not dead."

"Lestrade, please. I need to know."

He'd said please, but it certainly hadn't sounded like he meant it. To him, it was the mimic of a word he'd heard used in order to get something and was merely repeating. In other words, it was very much like Sherlock. And like Sherlock, he refused to listen.

"Come on. Tell me. What could it be that would possibly endanger his sister? Because if it isn't Moriarty, it may have something to do with whatever John's been getting into in my absence."

It was nice to know Sherlock was willing to tell him something, but it was far from enough. No, he wasn't having any of this. Not when the report he was going to have to file would be a real headache, and not when John was still in the dark about his flatmate being alive.

"Oh, so you know about that then. Upstairs, fourth floor, go and see him. We're done talking. I have loads of paperwork to do now and you, you would do well to lay low. There will be a lot of questions for you and answers will be expected for most of them."

Sherlock's bored look became..almost uncertain and fearful. This was different and he suspected he knew what was causing such an expression. It explained his skittish, rapid movements as well. Sherlock Holmes was nervous and worried about going to see John. _Sherlock _was.

"Room 407. Go on. Go!"

She was asleep. Harry had finally fallen asleep after hours of panicking and fear. He could hardly blame her for being so afraid. A man had kept her hostage in her own home and forced down drink after drink until she was throwing it up, and then he made her drink some more. When she finally passed out, that was that. Clara had arrived to find Harry lying on the floor with barely a pulse, the medical bus arriving moments later. Clara hadn't called them, so either a neighbor had somehow caught on that something was amiss, or the attacker himself had made the call. It didn't matter. John would choke him out either way when he got his hands on the culprit.

Mycroft hadn't hung around long after taking him to his sister's room, which he was relieved about. Though the two suits standing just outside the closed door told him he wouldn't be getting to do much of anything in the near future without Mycroft knowing about it. Sure the men were there as a manner of protection for his sister, and maybe him, too, but they were also there to inform on him to their boss.

When he was certain his sister was definitely sleeping without trouble, he let himself go. He expected there to be tears, silent ones. The quiet tears turned into sobs, however, and once started they couldn't be kept in. It was a culmination of events really. The past month, struggling with putting an end to the NSA mission he couldn't wait to get distance from, though he knew he was doing the right thing, remaining at the forefront of his mind. Then there was the stress of keeping his distance from people either out of anger or need to keep them safe while he worked his cover, the torment and injuries dealt by Moriarty, and losing Sherlock. None of it was easy and almost losing his sister had him at his wits end.

He never heard the door open but something made him turn towards it when he'd managed to stifle the loudest of the sobs. Sherlock Holmes stood just inside the now closed door. John turned back to his sister, wiped his eyes, glanced at Clara, who was asleep in the corner of the room, curled into herself, then dared to look again. Sherlock was still there. Sherlock was actually standing in the room. It wasn't wishful thinking or his imagination run wild.

Sherlock stared hard at him, those ever piercing eyes boring into his very soul, and then deemed it fit to speak. "Hello, John. I'm..not dead. Always been alive you see."

John stood, walked straight over to stand in front of Sherlock, and sighed very tiredly. "Well, of course you are."

Then he socked the other man in the jaw, knocking him to the floor. Another punch to the face ensured he was unconscious. Once certain he wasn't going to be getting up anytime soon, John returned to his sister's bedside and resumed holding her arm tenderly as she slept.

The following morning, John had managed to fall asleep partially resting on the hospital bed. His sister was still out, but bleary eyes told him Clara was awake and at Harry's side again. When she saw he was awake, her gaze moved downward to the floor before returning to him.

"Uh, who's the bloke on the floor?"

"Nobody."

"Oh my."

John sat up straighter as Mycroft came through the door and immediately zeroed in on his brother's prone form. Scratch that, his brother's slowly shifting and waking form. The slightly querying eyes moved over to John.

"I thought it would be best if he revealed he was in fact alive, in front of witnesses, to prevent unnecessary trauma. It seems it did not prevent you from believing he was not real? Or wait... Ah. What did he say?"

"His exact words?" He didn't wait for a response, just repeated what he'd been told automatically. "Hello, John. I'm not dead. There was a bit more, hardly worth mentioning. Guess I hit him harder than I thought. Well-deserved though."

"That I don't doubt." Mycroft said, even as he stooped to pull his brother straight.

Sherlock pushed his brother away to stand stiffly, facing John as though waiting for something. He caught the frown starting to grow on his recently thought dead friend and turned away in disgust. His own face remained neutral despite his feelings, unwilling to show Sherlock his unhappiness.

"I hope you don't expect anything from me. The damage is already done."

"Why are you upset? I'm the one who had to fake my death and spend six boringly dull months making sure no one knew I was alive. I did that to keep you safe, keep everyone safe. What's the problem?"

"Sherlock..." Mycroft started.

John gritted his teeth and refocused on watching his sister. She looked peaceful but knew there was likely a war going on in her mind. A part of her that desired rest and solitude, and the part that wouldn't let her and would persistently remind her of the damage done. It was unavoidable. He took her hand and squeezed it in order to reassure himself as well as her, that they were together and safe. Clara, meanwhile, was beginning to look alarmed. He gave her her own look of assurance that it was okay and she made to try and ignore everyone in the room, save for Harry.

"What? Stop being so sensitive. Yes, you thought I was dead. Yes, I'm sure the emotional ramifications of that are significant, but your sister has been attacked and we should get to the bottom of that."

"I find out you're alive and all you want to do is solve another mystery?" he asked, eyes stuck on watching Clara soothingly brush the hair away from Harry's face.

"Yes, well, no, not only. But John, time could be of the essence and so-"

"My sister is lying in hospital. She almost died. How can you act like this? Be so cold?"

He felt like he'd very much already had this conversation before with Sherlock but he was honestly hoping that somehow, in his absence, maybe his friend had learned a thing or two about the real world. He wasn't so lucky.

Sherlock had the tenacity to sound impatient with him. "By understanding I can't change anything simply by _feeling_ more."

"Really, now. And people think _I'm _cold-blooded."

John froze, completely. He wasn't breathing. Slowly he turned about to find Jim Moriarty standing at the door. When he caught John's gaze, he smirked. The men stationed outside the hospital room must have left sometime while he was asleep, because no one did anything as the criminal sauntered into the room. Until Sherlock did. Moriarty made the mistake of thinking he could approach John, and apparently that was a no-no.

The criminal consultant was being slammed against the wall next to the door by Sherlock in one swift motion. He held Moriarty there with a single arm pressed to his chest, the other flexing and unflexing, obviously wishing he had a gun.

"I don't know how you managed to pull it off, but I am more than happy to put a bullet in you, do the job good and proper."

"Ooooh. Terrifying." Moriarty mocked.

Making up his mind, he stood and faced the man who'd tortured him for six days. He'd never suffered more than when it was by this man's doing, especially when he had had Sherlock taken from him. He hated Moriarty, but he had determined to never let himself be crushed down to the point of giving up.

"Did you do this to my sister?"

"Why no, John. I did not. I think we both know you would know if I had."

He ignored the stares coming from both Holmes' and nodded once. "Yes."

"I came to extend my wish for your dear sibling's swift recovery, in the form of a gift. I suppose it's really for Sherlock. But..we know how that bond works, so a gift for him is a gift for you."

"What could you possibly give me that I would ever want?" snarled Sherlock, shoving Moriarty against the wall when he started to push off of it.

"Your reputation, as the one and only detective consultant." Moriarty responded as though it were obvious and Sherlock was being dense.

John realized the extreme anger permeating from Sherlock against the criminal mastermind was for him. Usually Sherlock couldn't help but hold a little interest in the man who was on his intellectual level. Now, though, it was barely contained fury and perhaps a glint of desire to inflict physical harm. He knew. He glanced in Mycroft's direction, wondering if the man had known all along his brother was alive and if he'd been the one to tell what had happened to John at Moriarty's hands.

"Oh, please," Sherlock said, staring down at Moriarty with great disdain. "If you clear my name it is for selfish reasons. Perhaps so you can play another one of your games with me. I won't play."

Moriarty gave nothing away, choosing to ignore the man holding him to the wall to observe Clara speaking softly to Harry, lips grazing the cheek. John had to hand it to the woman, she was adept at blocking out the drama unfolding in the room around her. He supposed there was the benefit that she didn't understand it and none of it mattered to her. In his case, all of it mattered very much to him and he wished it didn't.

"Ordinary people are adorable sometimes, aren't they? So raw and honest. So.._sweetly _innocent and naive."

Condescending tone, check. Directed toward the two women in the room, but not at John. Strange. John could tell Sherlock was wondering about his not being equated with the other "regular" people as well. Usually Moriarty took pleasure in reminding Sherlock that John was only a pet and nothing more. Still, he didn't like the way he was talking.

"You're a devil," he informed the devious man.

He grinned back at John, ready with a response. "And you're a doctor. Guess we can't always avoid the inevitable, Dr. Faust."

John stared. A clever allusion to a story he liked. Apparently Moriarty was familiar with the story, too. Two very different people with a similar taste in stories. He never thought he'd have something in common with Jim Moriarty. When he actually felt the beginnings of a smile start to form on his lips, he turned away, reminding himself of his sister's poor condition. He didn't have to look to know Sherlock was frowning between the two of them and Mycroft would bear a neutral expression as always.

The entire building shook. At least, the entirety of this side of the building had. Car alarms began to go off and Clara popped out of her seat to go peer out the window. Mycroft walked over as well, but paused when Moriarty's drawling voice followed the explosion.

"Whoops!" High-pitched and echoing falseness. "Looks like I left something in the parking lot. May be some injured folk down there wondering what oh what might have happened. Fun stuff, eh? Better go let someone see me so the vultures know who to write about. I did sign my name but the media can be awfully daft. I'll be seeing you, Sherlock. Your decision to sacrifice yourself for your friends means you're "pure". That gives you so many delightful weaknesses. Bye, John!"

He followed John's farewell with a wink and this time Sherlock had to restrain _him_ when he made to go after the bastard. He was in pieces and he'd never wanted to be. Not in front of emotionally repressed people like Mycroft and Sherlock. Not when his sister was lying as still as the grave she'd almost been put in with the percentage of alcohol detected in her system. Not when Sherlock was alive and well and still a target for Moriarty's stupid games that got people killed.

John wasn't certain when the restraining arms became an embrace, but eventually he noticed when things seemed to almost slow down for him. Clara was at the window, mortified expression telling how horrible the scene outside must be. Mycroft was on his phone barking orders, yet serenely. How did he manage that? Sherlock was lowering his head, speaking directly into John's ear.

"Home."

What? What was Sherlock saying? There were people running to and fro in the hallway. Shouts and screams could be heard, seemingly from every direction. It occurred to him that as a doctor he could lend a hand to the chaos reigning outside, but he was already moving for the exit. How was he moving to the exit? Oh, Sherlock was guiding him towards the quickest way out of the building. An emergency exit loomed ahead and he meant to scold him and tell him they shouldn't set off the alarm, but the words never made it out.

"Where are we going?" he asked, when he found himself being maneuvered into a cab. It didn't escape his notice, even through the shock he suddenly found himself in, that Sherlock was careful not to jostle or touch the worst of his bruises. He did know.

"Home. We're going home."


	6. A Practice in Normalcy-Subverted

**Chapter 5**

**A Practice in Normalcy-Subverted**

Sherlock wouldn't let him be alone. By the time he finally overcame his shock of enduring the last several hours, he'd been bathed, old wounds cleaned, and was laid in his bed. The man barely bothered to take care of his own needs, so it was startling when he realized all Sherlock had done to make him comfortable. He wasn't finished either. When he thought he would finally be left to himself, he turned onto his side to sleep and felt the bed dip, arms curling around him from behind. His first instinct was to protest, but honestly, the heat at his back was nice, and instead he felt his eyes flutter closed. It wasn't long before he drifted into a deep and restful sleep.

When his eyes opened again, memories of his sister's poor condition, Moriarty's latest crime, and Sherlock's miraculous return from the dead came flooding back. He woke to find those familiar sharp blue eyes locked on his face. Somehow during the night, he'd turned over to his other side and was now facing the man with arms wrapped about him. Experience told him the man staring had not slept the previous night. He wondered why he remained with him in the bed. Didn't he have an investigation into Moriarty to begin? Wasn't this return to the living all about Moriarty still being alive?

He waited for the other man to say something, but when it appeared that wasn't going to happen, he started to draw away from the arms still wrapped around him. The hold tightened, not enough to hurt, only to be insistent he remain where he was. A sigh passed through his lips and he settled back into the bed, admittedly comfortable aside from the piercing eyes on him. So they were going to have this conversation now, apparently.

"You're alive."

Stating the obvious seemed the thing to do.

"Yes."

"Half a year, that's how long you made me believe you were dead."

"I will explain. I had no choice."

"Yeah I know. You had to jump off the roof, kill yourself, or three different hired guns would kill Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and..me."

Sherlock's eyes expanded, impressed he knew all the facts. "You know already. How?"

"How do you think? The bastard sure does love to talk. Especially when it's about himself."

The detective shifted on the bed at the mention of the man he was referring to, discomfort evident. It felt a bit satisfying to see him that way. Maybe he was sore about Moriarty's temporary victory over him, forcing him to leave his life and go into hiding. That wasn't John's problem though. Even after learning the truth about why Sherlock had killed himself, or well, pretended to kill himself, witnessing his friend jump continued to haunt him. But now, knowing it had all been pretend, he couldn't shake the question from his mind that he had to ask.

"Why did you make me watch?"

The question caught him off guard, John could tell. He was making Sherlock uncomfortable and uncertain, that he could tell, too. Good. His false suicide had made him feel guilty, lonely, and at this point, furious. He wouldn't let it show. As angry as he was that Sherlock pretended to be dead for so long, there was still a part of him that was happy to see him alive and well.

"What?"

"You-jump. Why did I have to see it? You had to of known what that'd do to me. Unless..unless you're really that emotionally dense."

The frown creasing Sherlock's forehead vanished, blue eyes seemingly fading into a gray color, a more distant and cold look replacing it. John recognized he'd hurt the man's feelings but he couldn't bring himself to care. He continued to stare into the eyes staring at his cheekbones now, waiting for a response.

"Moriarty promised me a fall, after the trial. I knew there was a chance I would not win against him and planned accordingly. I couldn't plan for everything of course. Your arrival, it was my timer. I had to kill myself before you reached me or you would all die. So I stopped you from coming closer..and...made certain I was convincing to anyone who may have been watching or listening." His eyes roved over his face, appearing to study John's reaction carefully. "They had to believe I was dead. Your believing it was the best way to convince them."

"Well good job. You fooled everybody except Moriarty."

John watched Sherlock's shifting gaze move to the sole bruise visible with his undershirt on. The other man's expression darkened, not because of him this time.

"I at least managed to fool him for a time, or you would not be here today. Do you still hurt?"

This time he did pull away from Sherlock's hold, opting to sit up in his bed. So he would try to avoid talking about his fall from the roof in favor of talking about John, wonderful. Sherlock mimicked his movements, albeit, much more reluctantly. Almost subconsciously, John drew his knees up to his chest, unaware it made him look small and vulnerable.

"I'm fine."

"I don't believe you."

"I believed you killed yourself. Things change."

Sherlock was frowning again, probably trying to figure out what to make of John's words. Maybe he was thrilled at getting another puzzle to solve. He really didn't feel like thrilling Sherlock right now. He didn't want to be this close to him either. The near proximity made him want to hit him again. Not good.

"John..."

Apparently he couldn't put words together to get out any more than that, and John wasn't about to help him. The least he could do was notice he had put John and the rest of them through hell by pretending to be dead. The least he could do was act human enough to see he'd been cruel by staying dead for over six months and not letting anyone else in on his plan. Time away from John seemed not to have done him much good in the ways of understanding typical human emotions and socially appropriate norms.

"I'm fine. Moriarty did what he did because he's a bad man. I did what I did because I wanted revenge for your suicide. It was selfish, it was an evil concept, and I deserved everything done to me by that bad man."

"No! You did not deserve any of it!"

John flinched, and Sherlock flinched when he realized he'd shouted rather harshly at his friend.

"I won't discuss it. I'm going to get some breakfast. Hungry?"

"John..."

"I'll go put the tea on."

He walked out of the bedroom, figuring he'd be left alone. He was wrong. Funny, how he still hadn't managed to get used to being wrong. Sherlock was trailing behind him, keeping some space between them but ensuring he was near enough to be known. That set the tone for the entire day.

John had off from the hospital, Sherlock was laying low in the flat while the news about his return from the dead spread through the city like a wildfire, and he was always there. John sat in the living room watching the news about Sherlock Holmes and how evidence had recently come to light about the actual existence of criminal mastermind James Moriarty, including his direct involvement in the hospital parking lot bombing, and Sherlock sat alongside him. John went to the kitchen and would suddenly find Sherlock right behind him, watching. John went to the toilet, and disturbingly, Sherlock would be waiting just outside the door. John's phone rang at one point, and Sherlock gave him such a look that he decided it best to let the answering machine pick up. After a long, painstakingly slow day of this, the hour grew late and John headed for bed.

He had a call to make before going to sleep, but that didn't happen because Sherlock followed him into his bedroom. Getting ready for bed, he pretended he wasn't being observed the entire time. Inevitably, he finally snapped. Why should he have to pretend?

"What? What do you want?"

Sherlock's reply was simple. "Nothing."

"Okay...I'm going to sleep now. Good night then."

He climbed under the covers and shut off the bedside lamp, waiting to hear retreating footsteps before closing his eyes. He was very close to drifting off when the footsteps returned and then the bed was dipping. Arms wrapped around him and there was a familiar heat at his back. Well this was strange. There was a man sharing his bed, basically hugging him while he went to sleep, and he found he didn't mind it so much. He supposed it was something when the man's presence kept the nightmares of late at bay. The undercover job was getting to be a bit much, very risky. A constant reminder that Sherlock was truly alive and safe wasn't so bad.

Tonight he would let it go, but really, he was going to have to explain to Sherlock how it wasn't proper for two platonic friends to share a bed every night. It wasn't okay to follow your friend around the house everywhere and ridicule the few police who bothered to visit to apologize for doubting him either. At this moment though, his eyes were getting very heavy, and he was very comfortable, so he fell asleep content to have Sherlock with him.

The following day, about mid-morning, Sherlock got a call from Lestrade. They had a case for him. He said no and hung up. Then sat to stare at John some more. Rolling his eyes, he told Sherlock to take the case. He only shook his head and spent the next hour staring up at the ceiling, contemplating aloud, how long it would take before the vultures stopped swarming outside their door to get an "exclusive" interview with the recently proven innocent and alive detective consultant.

In the next hour, Donovan and Anderson showed up at their doorstep. It was clear Anderson had been dragged along, but Donovan seemed surprisingly sincere in her apology to Sherlock about turning the police against him without any real evidence. Sherlock's response was to deduce they hadn't slept together for the better part of a month because of tension between Anderson and his wife, and then he shut the door in their gaping faces. To be fair, Sherlock might have been a tad provoked into being rude since his flatmate had just put his foot down and declared there were two separate bedrooms for a reason, and that the bathroom had a door for a reason.

"Space, Sherlock, I need my space to breathe."

Sherlock only huffed indignantly and went to stare out the window for a while. He didn't understand what was so upsetting. John was sick of being treated like he was made of glass by the newly revived detective consultant. He got that maybe Sherlock thought his presence would help since John had been very lonely after losing his best friend, but he was fine. He could stand being by himself sometimes, no big deal. It never occurred to him, that Sherlock was the one who didn't want to be alone.

For two days he remained grumpy. On the third day, he reluctantly accepted a case from Lestrade when the man showed up and practically begged for his help. John refused to come along. He was tired and cranky and just plain angry. Sherlock was acting like everything was all fine and it was not all fine. He waited up for Sherlock that night and when the man finally came striding through the doorway, he somehow found himself exploding his rage instead of keeping quiet like he'd planned. Somehow during the time it took for Sherlock to stride up the stairs, he had decided simply not telling Sherlock wouldn't work for long. He needed to push his incredibly intelligent flatmate away if he had any hope of keeping his personal undercover case private.

He mustered every acting fiber in his being to appear utterly indignant and angry as he forced his eyes to meet Sherlock's own widening ones.

"I don't know if I can do this, Sherlock! Pretend everything is fine when it clearly is not. You faking your death and staying dead for half a year... There has to be a line. There has to be. I'm done with you, Sherlock. My therapist was right. You're destructive. Death and grief surround you. In this world, you are one of the worst things in it."

He almost gave in at that moment. Saying his good friend was one of the worst things in the world was too horrible. He had to do it. He had to finish this off and convince Sherlock he meant every word, even if it really just made him want to throw up.

"Looks like Moriarty wins after all. I'm done with you, with the way you make me feel so worthless and miserable. Goodbye Sherlock Holmes. London can keep you but God knows I won't."

Starting for his room, he decided he was going to move out. This would make working his other job much easier. No Sherlock around to be nosing about. His nightmares were getting worse, his fear of getting caught getting to him, and all the things he witnessed being done also terrible. If he accidentally spoke something damning in his sleep, he could be discovered by his friend. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to be in danger because of something he had decided to do. It might also be easier to go because it was becoming rather tiresome to live with a Sherlock who thought things would magically go back to the way they once were. He acted as though nothing had changed when so much had. Did Sherlock really not care? Or was the temporary emotional displays followed by a relative return to normalcy an attempt at saying sorry for making John mourn for a dear friend he'd believed lost.

Sherlock didn't even let him get to his bedroom before he blocked the doorway.

"Don't leave. You're tired. Sleep. I'm late because Mrs. Hudson spotted me and wouldn't let me go till she hugged me to near numbness. Please, sleep. I know you're mad because I pretended to be dead and because you think I forget about you. I don't. John, sleep?"

His mission to keep Sherlock at arms length and storm out was temporarily forgotten as he stared hard into Sherlock's eyes. Was he being honest? The man was a pretty damn good actor himself. He could be saying what John wanted to hear in order to get him to stay. But then, why would he bother if he didn't care about John? He turned his gaze away from Sherlock, realizing the man could be trying to read him at the same time, and then merely gave a mute nod and a forced smile.

"All right. It's fine. It's late. I'm going to bed. Do try to sleep some yourself, okay?"

Sherlock didn't answer, only watched as John gave up on him and retreated past to his bedroom, closing the door in his face without looking back.

Another week went by where the two of them barely said a word to each other, and then during the second week, Sherlock went off to work a case with Lestrade, while John decided he needed to pay a visit to a helpful friend of his during the past months. Tom, or Professor Kingston, had become an advisor and almost therapist of sorts for him. Initially he'd come to visit for a small bit of knowledge, and then he'd come again, and again. The man was astonishingly intelligent, had reminded him of Sherlock somewhat, and so any company with him had been welcome.

His visit with Professor Kingston in Cardiff ended up getting cut short when he got a call from Mary and headed off to meet her for lunch. He really liked Mary, and she liked him, too. She kept him grounded, made him happy and almost could manage to drag a genuine smile out of him. He hadn't been able to smile a real smile since he'd thought he'd lost Sherlock. Mary knew all about that and she was so understanding. John had met her by chance, recovering her pet dog when he noticed a pretty woman putting up missing pet signs one afternoon following a visit with the professor. He really liked Mary because she made him smile, even if it was fake. It still stopped him from walking around like the world was crushing down on his shoulders.

Lunch was nice. Seeing Mary always managed to cheer him up. Naturally, his happiness wasn't to last. On the cab ride back to Baker Street, he got a call from Lestrade asking him to come down to an embankment near the Thames. He went, and found Sherlock already there..with Moriarty.

"What the hell is he doing here?"

He addressed his question to Lestrade, despite the man speaking into his cell to another party. He was still trying to keep Sherlock at a distance, and he most definitely wasn't going to be talking to Moriarty if it wasn't required. His initial anger at seeing his flatmate with the criminal mastermind faded to the background of his mind when he noted while Moriarty was leaning in close with a grin, the other was leaning away, frowning. Sherlock must not have been the one to call him there and certainly didn't appear to want him around either.

When Sherlock saw him, he took a step back from the man in his personal space, and rounded on John.

"What have you been doing while I've been away, John? What's going on?"

"What? What are you on about?"

Lestrade hung up his phone. "All right, Donovan has managed to track down the man Moriarty directed us to." His eyes narrowed onto the mentioned man. "This had better be on the level."

The man shrugged and shifted his attention from Sherlock to John. "Johnny boy! So pleased to see you. How's the sister? Doing better I hear."

"Her life span's been shortened thanks to the maniac who did that to her, but other than that, yeah, she's just marvelous."

"Ah, well, probably better that way. I mean, really, how much is she actually doing for this world by staying alive?"

John would like to hit Moriarty. Instead, he breathed in through his mouth and exhaled slowly through his nose. He tried to figure out why the man was here. What could he possibly want? Did he already wish to resume his stupid intelligence measuring games with Sherlock?

He pointedly ignored the man seeking false idle chit chat with him, and turned to Sherlock. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"

Sherlock swallowed before answering. "There's been a hit put out, through the criminal network. Moriarty showed up at the flat having traced it to the origins. What have you been doing, John?"

"Nothing."

"John."

"Nothing, Sherlock! I took a few cold cases from Lestrade after I thought you'd died. That's it."

"It's true, Sherlock. But he hasn't taken a case for some time, none of them likely to result in someone actually wanting him dead. This doesn't make sense."

Moriarty sauntered around John for a moment, then meandered his way back over to the consulting detective. "See, Sherlock, I can do for him what you can't. Interesting."

"Oh shut it. You're only here because the concept of anyone else wanting John dead intrigues your insane mind."

"Oh?"

"You want to know why."

"So do you!" Moriarty sang.

"Oi! What's keeping you? Let's go!"

Donovan had arrived, standing between two brick buildings a fair distance from where their little group was standing around. John felt Sherlock's lingering gaze on him before the consultant turned and jogged after Donovan, who had turned and disappeared back into the alleyway.

Sherlock wanted to know what was going on with his friend and he was determined to deduce precisely what was being kept from him. John was lying. He'd been lying with so many things and John never had done that before he'd gone away for half a year. A lying John disturbed him so he settled on finding the man behind the hit. He'd get some answers out of him.

He found the lieutenant had the man they were seeking cornered. He was gruff in appearance, eyes rimmed red, hands shaking. A hallucination was the cause of his behavior, no doubt. He was trembling, yet his eyes were miles away half the time. Donovan towering over him the way she was likely caused him to see some sort of monster in her place.

"Useless," he muttered.

"What's useless?"

Lestrade had finally caught up, Moriarty strolling casual-like, just behind. Sherlock ignored them both and crouched down in front of the high man who held the information he required. He slapped the man across the face, twice, then tried to talk to him.

"Focus. What's your name? Why did you put out a contract on a man's life?"

No response except for unintelligible muttering. That would not do.

"Your name? How do you know John Watson?"

The eyes suddenly focused for a second, staring directly at the wall behind Sherlock. His muttering ceased, he breathed in deep, and then spoke much more clearly.

"Watson. John Watson. I'm sorry, John. You're going to have to run now. They made me. You're going to have to run now, John. Ruuuun!"

The man slumped over and started whimpering to himself. Donovan kicked him once and then stepped away.

"He won't be any help."

"I got rid of the hit." Moriarty shared. "So don't worry your pretty little head over it, Sherlock. Of course, if they very much need him dead, there's always that whole doing it yourself to get things done saying..."

Sherlock was occupied, his mind racing with thoughts. John was acting strange. He had been acting distinctly not like John since Sherlock returned from his boring life, hiding away so the world thought him dead. Was John lying when he said he didn't know why there'd be a hit out on him? He didn't think so. John wasn't the greatest at pretending, especially to him, and he'd appeared genuinely confused and surprised about anyone placing a hit out on his life. Cold cases. Lestrade had given John cold cases to work on. He'd have to get a look at those if he was to properly deduce whether or not any of them could be the reason John was required to stop breathing.

What if there was nothing there though? Then it would have to be something else. Why would anyone want John dead? It didn't make sense. And why was Moriarty here supposedly helping? What did he care? Why pretend to care? It gained him nothing. What was he missing?

"Ah, damn it. You've gone and got lost in your own head again."

He broke himself from his thoughts upon hearing Lestrade's words, shaking his head once and then glancing the man's way.

Lestrade stared back at him, looking exasperated. "Where's John?"

Sherlock turned around to seek out John, who usually stood just behind him and off to the side to allow him to work, observing all the while. He wasn't there. John was always there. A frown creased his forehead and then he was running, back the way he'd come, towards the river.

"Sherlock!"

He heard Lestrade calling out behind him, followed by Donovan's cursing, and he blocked it all out. His focus was entirely on one thing. John, John, John.

The river came into view, he spotted John, and he breathed with relief. John was fine. He was pacing along the edge of the river in a frustrated manner. He'd opted not to follow after them and was instead mulling over why there was someone trying to kill him. Sherlock deduced this with a single scan.

Moriarty was brushing himself up against his right elbow and shoulder with a slight smirk.

"Sherly, trouble in paradise? Your faithful lapdog not so willing to follow after you anymore? Maybe you shouldn't have pretended to be dead. A big lie like that can change partners forever."

"I get it. You want me dead."

"Mmm, not anymore. I still do so love to see you dance."

He lowered his eyes to Moriarty with disgust. "You faked your death, too, so I don't know where this holier than thou crap is coming from."

"The rules didn't say _I_ couldn't."

"And the rules merely said I had to jump. I jumped. Time to move on."

"How did you do it?"

Sherlock knew he was asking how he'd faked his death. His insatiable curiosity was frankly rather annoying. Didn't he have better things to do than irritate him? A brief glint of metal in the sunlight caught his eye. Vaguely he heard Donovan and Lestrade catching up, dragging a handcuffed and still very high man between them. His gaze moved towards the metallic shine and he took in the man standing a good distance away on his left, wearing jeans and a gray hoodie, gun in hand. The gun was lifting to point at John.

"John!"

His warning shout was in vain. It grabbed John's attention immediately, but it only gave his friend time to see the terror in his eyes, and then he was shot. The bullet hit him in the stomach and caused him to gape when he traced his eyes to the shooter. That was when the second bullet blew through his stomach, just slightly higher and to the left of the first one. Sherlock watched John lowering his gaze to the two bleeding holes in his stomach and knew he was going into shock. For a moment, John's head leveled and their eyes met, it was broken when Sherlock observed the blood leaking from his lips and his friend fell backwards into the river.

"John!" he screamed.

He ran for where his friend had slipped into the water, shouting for Lestrade and Donovan to go after the shooter and to call for medical help. Then he was throwing off his heavy coat and diving into the water. It took him thirty seconds to locate his friend, motionless and sinking, and another thirty to bring them both up from beneath the surface. Shifting John's weight in his arms, he managed to swim to the edge and was surprised when a second pair of hands took hold of John's shoulders and pulled him the rest of the way out. Moriarty. He'd forgotten about him.

Sherlock followed John out of the cold water and together, he and Moriarty positioned the limp man onto his back. Straightening his head and slightly tilting it backwards, he began chest compressions, periodically breathing into his mouth. After the third round of chest compressions, John began to cough up water mixed with blood. His eyes fluttered and then opened into slits that focused on Sherlock, who leaned in close.

"John. John hang in there."

John's eyes started to close and not knowing what else to do, Sherlock slapped him. The eyes startled open again, a little gasp escaping his mouth. He couldn't die on him. Not John. He began to ramble, wondering how long the damn bus was going to take.

"He's dying. He's dying and I can't stop it. What can I do? What do I do? I need you to tell me what to do, John."

"Two gunshot wounds to the upper and lower left quadrants of the stomach. I'm dying, Sherlock. It's okay... Not your fault. It's okay..."

"Sherlock."

Reluctantly, he dragged his eyes from John's face to look at Moriarty.

"He's a doctor. He will know what to do to best prolong his life. Do it."

His eyes returned to John's face, even as Moriarty lowered his lips to just beside John's right ear.

"Don't listen to what your body is telling you. Listen to _me_."

Surprisingly, John responded to him, face slightly inclining towards the man speaking. Sherlock took over from there. He tore open the bloody and soaked shirt, exposing the pair of identical holes in his belly. It was bad. There was so much blood.

"John, you need to tell me what to do. What would you do if you had a patient like this?"

"Pressure. Slow the bleeding. Need to keep..patient awake and responsive, or it's already too late."

Sherlock did as he said, ripping the scarf from around his neck to place against the bleeding wounds. A hand fixed around his elbow.

"Pressure, Sherlock."

He knew what that would mean on a physical level for John. "Are you sure?"

A curt nod was the only response he received. He applied pressure to the cloth placed over the wounds and a sharp intake of breath followed by a groan of pain emerged from John. Sherlock felt something tighten in his own chest.

"Staying awake, Johnny. That's what we're doing." Moriarty was saying.

A black car pulled up. "That's our ride."

"What?" Sherlock asked, looking at him in confusion.

"To hospital. Now. Your police friends are taking far too long. Shall we?"

He didn't hesitate. If John stayed here he was as good as dead. "John, I'm picking you up now. This will hurt but you have to stay with me, okay?"

Lifting him up, he cradled his friend in his arms and followed Moriarty to the car. As the blood seeped from the wounds, he could feel the life seeping out of the body along with it. There wasn't much time and he couldn't let John die. It had been a hard decision to leave John alone when he'd pretended to be dead and they'd been apart for too long, that much he could tell. Now John was leaving him and he couldn't let that happen. Not after they'd finally found each other again. He tightened his hold on John.

John woke to the beeping of machines and a man beside his bed he had not expected. James Moriarty was reclined as comfortably as one could be in the hard chair that resided beside the hospital bed in the darkened room. His fingers were tapping out a beat on the armrest and he realized there were earpieces in his ears and he was listening to his ipod. That stopped when he became aware John was awake. It was probably a break in his rhythmic breathing while he was asleep or some other minor detail.

He casually put the ipod away and contemplated John's expression, fingers tapping along the side of the bed. His fingers began to trace over the small, ragged scar on John's arm, the one mark left behind from his time in Moriarty's..care. Finally, he seemed to decide what he was going to say or that he was going to say them.

"Three days. That's how long it took before the elder Holmes forced junior Holmes away from your bedside to do that pesky sustenance business. I don't know why he loathes eating so much. A good indulgence now and again is fairly pleasurable. Ah well, it's why I didn't come to see you earlier. Though it appears," Moriarty was flipping through his medical chart. "You haven't regained consciousness until this very moment. Oooh lucky me."

"Thank..." He paused when his voice came out raspy and dry.

Moriarty responded by standing and moving over to a table with cups and a water pitcher. He poured him some water and returned to the bed, pressing a button that shifted the bed into a position which allowed John to be sitting slightly upright, before handing it to him. John found he was able to move with relative ease, though he was stiff, sore, and very much aware of the recent holes in his stomach. This was good, no permanent damage or paralysis.

"Thank you. I mean, for helping save me. I..I owe you my life."

He wondered if he should have said that much when the other man leaned in, silk tie from his expensive suit rubbing against his neck he was so close, to speak low in his ear.

"I'll remember that Johnny."

Was the man incapable of saying anything without being entirely creepy? Oh it got worse, too, and John had to restrain himself from hitting the button to call for the nurse. He could handle Moriarty, even if the man terrified him, he could.

"I decide when you're going to die, Johnny boy. You're still breathing because this wasn't on my terms. I own your life. Remember that."

John cleared his throat and forced himself to remain calm, at least on the outside. "Right, yes, well that was suitably disturbing."

Moriarty laughed and he shrank back a little. He drank the second cup of water handed to him and then he decided he very much wasn't ready to be conscious and alert quite yet. His head came to rest against the pillow and his eyes grew tired and heavy nearly as fast.

"Sherlock?"

His eyes were closed now but Moriarty's voice drifted down to him. "Oh he'll be around again in exactly three minutes so I'd best be going. You know how possessive he can get over his things."

"Not his."

"Correct. You're mine."

Deeply unsettling, but his mind barely grasped the concept before slipping into the darkness of a restful sleep.


End file.
